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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629189">Dies Irae</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan'>Rocinan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Broken Mirror: Berlermo Dark fics [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Amputation, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Injury, Child Abuse, Child Death, Dark, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Faustian Bargain, Gothic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Talking Animals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:28:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27629189</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dies iræ, dies illa / Solvet sæclum in favilla/ Teste David cum Sibylla.”</p><p>Once upon a time there was a wicked boy who became a wicked man. You know how this story ends, Martín- don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t pretend you can change it. You can’t save him. No one can.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa &amp; Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa &amp; Tatiana, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Broken Mirror: Berlermo Dark fics [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998601</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here's the next installment in the berlermo dark fic series! This one isn't dark in the sense that it's a horror piece. It's more of a gothic tragedy (or at least that's how I hope it feels). Probably the strangest thing I've written yet, so I completely understand if you're not into this :') </p><p>But for those of you who decide to read on, thank you in advance for giving this a chance!! </p><p>On another note, I prefer to headcanon Andrés and Sergio has having the same mother and a different father. For *this* story and this story only, I'm going with Alvaro Morte's headcanon where they share the same father instead (I prefer to think of Papa Marquina as a fundamentally good man which is why I don't vibe with the "same dad" hc, but for this story only, he won't be the greatest guy).</p><p>Watch out for: Tatiana's POV, faustian elements, self-harm (but not for the reason you think), referenced suicide, general angst, no happy ending. I'm unsure if a T rating is enough for this or if all the themes are tagged, so if you feel like this needs a rating bump or another tag, please let me know!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I know you’re not a religious man, Martín. I always knew as much, just by looking at you. But you’re not uncultured-- Andrés would never have been with you otherwise. Then do you know the requiem hymn? The lyrics to the funeral mass?</p><p>The first stanza goes like this: <em> “Dies iræ, dies illa / Solvet sæclum in favilla/ Teste David cum Sibylla.” </em></p><p>Don’t laugh! I once had a beautiful voice, you know. It’s still beautiful by these <em> new </em>standards of mine. </p><p>You know the mass then? Good. I’ve heard it so many times in my childhood. Even when I forget my Latin, I never forget the hymn. Andrés doesn’t like it when I sing it. I don’t do it on purpose. Sometimes it slips out of my tongue, like a serpent’s trill. He thinks it sounds like I’m mourning, and you know how much Andrés hates mourning. </p><p>I think a part of me<em> was </em>mourning. Maybe because I always knew how this story would end. You know how it ends too, Martín-- don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t pretend you can change it.</p><p>This will take some time. Put your hand here, above my head, yes. Stroke it like that. Ah. </p><p>Andrés would hate for me to tell you. The past is something to bury and forget, that’s what he always says. But that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. It keeps me up at night, the thought that all of this- him, me- will be forgotten. So I’ll tell you everything, Martín. Everything from the very start.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>There was a church in our village. Erected by a saint in the middle ages. Polished through the years and centuries that followed. It had withstood war and storm and drought through the power of heaven’s favor. If you looked upon it, you would believe the legend too. It was beautiful, with pillars held by angels and ceilings of marble, chiseled to perfection by the masters of old. </p><p>In contrast, the little village was a town of dust and mud. But as a child, I couldn’t have cared less. It was my home, and that was all it took for me to accept it. In fact, I was quite fond of how drab our little houses were. I especially liked to watch the sunrise from my window. How the light would wrap around the church that towered over us all.</p><p>I would get up each morning to watch the sun because of how early my uncle would wake. I had wanted to do everything with him. You see, I never knew my parents, so I clung to my uncle like any little girl would. </p><p>Now, he wasn’t cruel to me. But he lacked patience. I was a burden to him more than anything else, though he tried his best to hide it. Yet I could always tell by the way he looked at me. He only ever hugged me once, you know, but that was even longer ago.</p><p>So because I knew how he felt about me, I followed him to work instead of playing on the streets, as he no doubt preferred. </p><p>Uncle was the chapel’s organist. He played wonderfully, divinely. And I used to sit by his bench, listening to the echoes of his song. </p><p>
  <em> Yes, Martín, I know you don’t care about my life. Stop whining. You’ll hear the part you want soon.  </em>
</p><p>What else do you need to know first? Ah, yes. The church overlooked a cemetery, one as big as the village itself. I never went near it because something about it unnerved me, especially after the sun fell. I’m not sure what it was- the sinister curve of brambles, the way the trees watched me, or the stillness. No wind touched the graveyard. But if you listened closely, you could hear the whispers of the dead, kept at bay only by the divinity of the village priests.</p><p>Uncle told me never to enter the cemetery alone. It was a maze of stone and roses, hard to enter, impossible to leave. And the whispers beseech you near. The dead are lonely in their tombs, only with the company of wilting flowers. And it was no secret that they envied the living.</p><p>But the cemetery did have company, <em> living </em> company. I don’t quite remember his name or what he looked like, but I remember the first time I saw his backside, from the doorway on a day with light rain-- Señor Marquina, the groundskeeper. He was a quiet man, sullen, and he mostly kept to himself. </p><p>He was the one who cleaned the grave stones, inspected the mausoleums, replaced the wilting flowers with fresh lilies and sometimes white roses. It was a job no one else dared take, for fear of bad luck, curses. Marquina feared neither. Rumor had it his heart was shattered. And only a man with a broken heart could wander through the cemetery unharmed. Spirits had no grudge towards dead men walking. </p><p>It turned out the rumor was true.</p><p>Marquina’s wife had died the previous year, in a particularly cold December. Uncle had played at the funeral. She left Marquina an infant son, a babe I’d yet to see. But I knew his name- Sergio.</p><p><em> You stopped petting. I won’t speak unless you continue, Martín… </em> all right, I’ll go on:</p><p>I was ten years old at the time. Still too young to do anything else, but too noticeable to sit by Uncle’s side at the organ. He arranged for me to join the choir, so for the next season, I sang Dies Irae at every funeral. There were other hymns, but that was the one I know best of all. Even then, I think, the mass was only telling me what would happen next.</p><p>After choir rehearsals, I usually wandered the church for as long as I could without being caught. Sometimes I lay on the pews, simply to gaze at the angels above. It was a dazzling place, Martín, intoxicating to look at, from the murals in the alcoves to the windows of stained glass. If there ever existed a place that at once touched heaven’s light and hell’s fire, this was it.</p><p>But something came over me that day in particular, the day I saw Señor Marquina. It was raining outside, so I was compelled to stay indoors. I went to a higher level, where the clergymen worked, to see what treasures I could touch before Uncle’s colleagues caught me in the act. </p><p>I found no holy grails, but I saw a boy on the balcony, suspended to the ceiling by ropes around his waist. He was lying in mid-air, as carefree as could be, face towards the sculptures on the ledge. He held a paintbrush in his hand, and when I looked carefully, I saw that he was polishing the Virgin’s face. I’d always wondered who kept the sculptures’ paint intact.</p><p>I just hadn’t expected it to be another child.</p><p>“Aren’t you scared?” I asked him, and because it was so quiet, my voice floated to his ears easily enough.</p><p>He turned his head. Perhaps if you were in my place, you’d say you saw a cherub. To me, he looked more like the offspring of an incubus. I was a child with rosy curls and rosy cheeks. His hair was the color of ink and coal. And when he grinned, his lips followed an impish curve.</p><p>“No,” he said, “it’s fun. I could fall and die.”</p><p>He kicked his legs. “But if I live, then it’s divine will.” </p><p>I shrugged. “If you say so.” Then leaning over the balcony, I asked, “Did you paint these?”</p><p>He shook his head. “Someday I will. Right now they just want me to fix the paint that’s falling away.”</p><p>“Wow.”</p><p>He beamed at me, proud. Then he said, “Aren’t you the organ player’s daughter?”</p><p>“I’m his niece.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>I didn’t like his ‘oh’ so I quipped back, “Who are you supposed to be?”</p><p>“I’m the groundskeeper’s son.” He went back to painting his sculptures.</p><p>“I haven’t seen you before. Neither has Uncle, so maybe you’re a nobody.”</p><p>That got to him. “I’m not a nobody.”</p><p>“Then prove it. What’s your name?” I think I smirked at him first. “I’m Tatiana.”</p><p>“Andrés.”</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>When I met Andrés, he was twelve years old and by all accounts, a boy no villager wanted anything to do with. He used to steal apples from the market and replace them with painted ceramic. That’s the kind of child he was. Andrés would do anything for a laugh, some semblance of attention, even if it ended with some old couple assaulting him with a broom.</p><p>That might be why we became so close. </p><p>Uncle never paid me more mind than he had to. And Señor Marquina, even less to Andrés.</p><p>It came as some shock to me when I first found out he was the groundskeeper’s son. Marquina never walked with him, though Andrés insisted he’d accompanied his father to the cemetery many times. Then, I believe to get rid of him, Marquina arranged for Andrés to work within the church. I don’t know if he was aware of the height at which Andrés worked.</p><p>I said my uncle was never cruel to me. Marquina was not cruel to Andrés either. He kept Andrés clothed and fed, and to him, that was enough. As far as he was concerned, Andrés was not his son, not even in name. He let Andrés run wild because he could not bring himself to care. It didn’t matter to Marquina whether or not Andrés knew his Latin or skipped his studies. I doubt he even cared if Andrés came home for dinner.</p><p>Marquina, I think, only loved Sergio. Sometimes Andrés mentioned it to me, how his father would dote on his baby brother, but he was never bitter about it. More wistful than anything else. </p><p>I went to Andrés’ house many times in the following year. Although Marquina always scolded him for it, Andrés could never resist taking me to Sergio’s cradle. Andrés doted on his brother as much as, if not more than, their father, and he could spend hours at a time coaxing the babe until he laughed. That was no small feat. </p><p>Sergio had been born ill. He was often the victim of coughs and fevers, and besides me, the most frequent visitor to their home was the doctor. Marquina had been told it would be a miracle if the babe grew to see his next birthday, if he would ever be strong enough to walk on two legs. Every day, Marquina grappled with the grief of his dead wife and the pain of losing his second son. </p><p>Perhaps to distract himself from Sergio’s impending death, Andrés began spending more time with me. We practiced Latin in his room and climbed the tree outside his window. Sometimes we snuck out to steal sweets. More often than not, we’d sing and tell each other stories of nonsense. We laughed. And- don’t you dare tell him- maybe I loved Andrés as more than a friend.</p><p>I loved his smile most of all. You know how he looks when he smiles. But back then, Martín, when he smiled, he meant it.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Andrés and I came to share everything with each other. I had always been told my parents had perished in a fire. But I had my doubts-- I suspected they’d died in some worse way, that perhaps they’d been driven mad by the smoke instead, that there was more my uncle would not say. It explained why the other girls never looked at me, as if they were afraid whatever misfortune that befell my parents had passed onto me.</p><p>“They’re scared,” Andrés mused, “they think you’re cursed.”</p><p>I shrugged. “I don’t feel cursed.”</p><p>“It’s not so bad,” he said with a grin, “it makes you powerful. Like me.”</p><p>I hadn’t thought much of his words- <em> like me </em>- then, but I would find out soon. He never tried to convince me I wasn’t cursed; he did the very opposite, and for whatever reason, it made me feel good. He made me feel that I had no reason to be ashamed, that I was better, not worse, than the other children. </p><p>I never pried into Andrés’ life because quite frankly, I was never that interested. I knew he had a father and a brother, and that was all I cared about. And he never liked the focus on the mundane. He much preferred to share books about knights and dragons, and the occasional tale of a witch eating children. He had a voracious appetite for stories of that sort.</p><p>“Do you want to know a secret?” he asked me once.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>
  <em> “Tatiana.” </em>
</p><p>“Fine, what is it?”</p><p>His grin was sharp, devious, when he told me what it was: “The shadows speak to me. I can hear them anywhere. It’s a special gift.”</p><p>He said there were voices in the hollow of the tree outside his house. I thought he was hearing squirrels, but Andrés was adamant-- there were words in the shadows, distant whispers you can only hear when you’re alone. He said the same thing at the church. I remember that afternoon, when the sunset painted the chapel’s angels a shade of bright gold.</p><p>Andrés held my hand as he guided me through each alcove. He said he could hear things in the cracks, that those carved faces would look at him and move their lips. The light had completely faded by the time we reached the cellars, the catacombs beneath our feet.</p><p>“It’s strongest here,” he said.</p><p>And he pressed his ear to the ground. I did the same. I told Andrés I heard nothing, that he’d wasted my time with his stupid prank, but I was lying, Martín. Because there was something beneath the marble.</p><p>Like a flame in the water, something I wasn’t meant to hear. It chilled me to the bone. Because that was how it reached us, through the bones, into our heads, perhaps curling across our hearts. Shadows can speak, Martín, and the sound is enough to drive the strongest man mad. But Andrés relished in the sounds. I think he regarded them as his companions, things to keep him company when he had no one else.</p><p>“I want to go home, Andrés.” I said it to him again. And though he was disappointed I couldn’t hear the shadows, Andrés gave in eventually.</p><p>We went to his house and snuck biscuits from the kitchen as we always did. And because he knew talk of the shadows would upset me, Andrés spoke of them no more.</p><p><em> What did I hear, at the catacombs? </em>They spoke in Latin, and I think I was too terrified to remember my words. But I did make out two words, and I know I wasn’t mistaken: “cemetery” and “Andrés.” </p><p><em> How did they sound, you’re asking? </em> Like they were laughing. </p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Uncle had been pleased that I was spending more time from home. At first. When he learned that I was frolicking with the groundskeeper’s first son, he dragged me away. Uncle was livid. For the first time in my life, I felt that he cared for me.</p><p>But for the first time in my life, I wanted none of his attention. I begged him, I sobbed at his feet, I told Uncle I’d do anything, anything if he would just let us stay friends.</p><p>“That boy will be the death of you,” he’d hissed.</p><p>I can’t recall how much it hurt, but I do remember going to bed that night with a sore bottom. Uncle had smacked it with a ruler until I complied. Then I was a mess of tears on the bed, forbidden from seeing the only friend I ever had.</p><p>Later, Uncle- perhaps feeling that he’d been too harsh with me- would tell me what the village thought of Andrés. I learned that his mother was a sore subject among the adults, Señor Marquina most of all. They called her a witch, a servant of the devil himself. And to my memory, Andrés’ father did nothing to counter these accusations though they’d only come to pass after her death.</p><p>They said she was already carrying a demon’s seed when she met Marquina. She seduced him to complete her unholy union. And when Marquina finally came to his senses, he tried to leave her. In revenge, she set a curse upon the cemetery, one that the church was still fighting to reverse. She was the cause of Sergio’s illness and his mother’s death, for she’d traded her life for the end of theirs. But her tainted blood remained in Andrés, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind he’d grow up to be just as wicked.</p><p>That was what Uncle told me. </p><p><em> Don’t roll your eyes, Martín. </em>Here’s the truth-- Andrés was born out of wedlock. Then Marquina left Señorita de Fonollosa for another woman, Sergio’s mother. Unwilling to accept this, Fonollosa hung herself from a tree in the graveyard. And because she was dead and Marquina was not as heartless as this story’s leading you to believe, he chose to keep their son. I can’t say for certain whether any curse exists, but Andrés had come to embody every nasty superstition our village had gathered over the years.</p><p><em> Don’t look at me like that, Martín. </em>Andrés isn’t some innocent victim. You’ve seen for yourself what he’s capable of. He’s done things, unforgivable things, and he- more than anyone else- deserves to rot in hell. But he was once a child too. A child whose only crime was being born to a woman his father didn’t love.</p><p>And I suppose he indulged in misbehavior because everyone said he would. Perhaps it was easier for him, to pretend he deserved his lot in life.</p><p>But I had none of these thoughts in my head that night. I only wept over my sore butt. It was near midnight by the time I heard the pebbles against my window. Still sniffling, I crawled over and opened it.</p><p>Andrés was outside, sitting atop a thick branch. </p><p>“Don’t worry, Tatiana,” he whispered, “I’ll save you. I’ll take care of this.”</p><p>That sounds like him, don’t you agree?</p><p>He wanted to save me, but now I realize he was hoping I would save <em> him. </em></p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Uncle no longer allowed me to leave home without him. I think he planned to keep me inside until he found me a husband. I shuddered at the prospect then, and I shudder at it now. To distract me from Andrés, he even brought a cat home to keep me company. It was an orange tabby. <em> Don’t you dare laugh, Martín. </em></p><p>I named her Naranjita. Not a creative name, but I was hardly in the mood for creativity. The house was stifling, and I dearly missed the chapel, just as much as I missed going to Andrés’ home. </p><p>In the daylight, I sang to myself lest I forget my hymns, but I spent more time playing with Naranjita instead. She loved yarn, and it was the only thing keeping her from scratching up what remained of our curtains. At night, Andrés visited from the window.</p><p>“Can I hold her?” he’d asked when he first saw Naranjita.</p><p>“Only if you come inside. I don’t want her running away.”</p><p>Then he grinned and snuck into my room. </p><p>“You have to keep your voice low- Uncle will kill you if he sees you.”</p><p>He scoffed. “I’ll kill him first.” And the glint in his eye told me he was serious.</p><p>When these visits started, we passed the hours until daybreak playing with Naranjita. But as you know, it’s a cat’s nature to do whatever it pleases whenever it pleases. And when she was bored of scratching Andrés’ face, Naranjita went to sleep at the foot of my bed.</p><p>Then Andrés would tell me of his plans. They were elaborate, the kind of schemes only a child would think of. He’d hire someone to play my husband, he’d distract Uncle so I could run away, he’d burn my house down so we had to go outside, and so on, each plan more impractical than the last. But it reminded me of the way things used to be so I let him babble on.</p><p>And then he stopped coming.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>When Andrés next visited me, he didn’t care for Naranjita at all. He was thinner, the cheeks a bit sunken, his eyes the slightest bit puffy. It’s hard to imagine, I know, the idea of<em> Andrés </em>looking desolate. But that was how he appeared- desperate, hopeless, inconsolable.</p><p>“You don’t look well,” I told him, “do you want to eat something?”</p><p>I was going to give him some of the sweets I kept under his pillow. But he shook his head. “Sergio’s sick.”</p><p>Sergio was always sick. So I knew the hour had come, there was no saving his brother this time.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Andrés.”</p><p>“I don’t know what to do.” He clutched at his head, and I wondered if he would cry. “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>“What did the doctors say?”</p><p>He shook his head again, vigorously. “They say he won’t make it. But they always say that. So I know he’ll be fine-”</p><p>“Andrés, Andrés, calm down.” I grabbed his hands. “What does- what does your father think?”</p><p>He bit his lip. </p><p>“Oh, oh,” I muttered. I tried to hold him in my arms, but he didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, Andrés, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Eventually, he accepted my embrace. There was no point to his visit otherwise, if only to garner some comfort from me. Like I said, I was ten. There was not much I could do for him even if I knew how to help. But I think he’d made up his mind before coming. This was more of a farewell,</p><p>“There <em> is </em> something I can do,” he whispered after however long we hugged in silence.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>He looked at me, a hint of fear in his gaze, the profound type of fear one had before doing the unthinkable.</p><p>“They tell me to go to the cemetery.”</p><p><em> They. </em>I knew who he meant, but I refused to indulge it. I refused to play along because those very words were conjuring panic within me, the likes of which I’d never had. </p><p>“Who’s telling you?” I demanded.</p><p>“The voices, the things.” He glanced out the window, past the branches, looking much like a curled cage. “They’re getting stronger- I can hear them in my sleep now.”</p><p>“What do you think they are?” I already knew the answer. He did as well.</p><p>“I know it’s not something holy.” His gaze fell. “Maybe that’s why it’s calling to me.”</p><p>You should have heard the way he said it. I believed him immediately. And because it scared me so badly, I shook his shoulders, I shook and shook until I could shake those thoughts from his brain.</p><p>“You won’t help anyone,” I insisted, “not Sergio, not yourself, not your father-”</p><p>“But what if-”</p><p>“Do you want to leave Señor Marquina with two dead sons!? Is that what you want?!”</p><p>I was so angry, but he didn’t seem to care. He was even stupid enough to laugh, and I remember my skin prickling at the sound.</p><p>“But Tatiana,” he said, “I won’t be missed.”</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>I don’t know if Andrés went to the cemetery that night or not. In the morning, I was halfway tempted to sneak to the church and inform the priests. But I was afraid worse punishment would befall Andrés for speaking to the shadows.</p><p>It turned out my worries were for nothing because the worst was yet to come.</p><p>When Andrés visited me again, it was a week later. Uncle had allowed me into the chapel on Sunday, but Andrés wasn’t present, and after mass, I was sent straight home.</p><p>Andrés was already waiting in my room when I arrived. I slapped him for scaring me and he laughed like it was a funny thing to do. Some color had returned to his cheeks and he looked brighter than he ever had, as if he had spent the day celebrating some wonderful thing. </p><p>“I went to the cemetery,” he said, proud, “and found my out. It was easy.”</p><p>Then he showed me a battered book, bound in cracked leather and falling apart at its pages. It bothered me, that book. And I didn’t like the way he clung to it. </p><p>“Look at this, Tatiana. They left it for me, above Mamá’s grave.”</p><p>He never spoke of his mother with me. And I knew for a fact that his mother had no grave. No, he found that infernal thing in the branches of the old tree she’d died on. </p><p>“Throw it away,” I told him, “it’s not going to help.”</p><p>“Yes, it will.” He rolled up his sleeves, and I saw a line of red on his forearm, a thin cut that was halfway healed. “See?”</p><p>He opened the book, pointing to a page with splattered brown. The smell made me flinch. Disgusted, I pushed it back at him.</p><p>“Andrés, what is this?” I hissed.</p><p>“Blood. I added a bit of mine, like it said I should. And I think it’s working-”</p><p>He rambled on, flicking through drawings of pentagrams and horns and whatever else made my stomach uneasy. </p><p>“Sergio’s fever went down,” he said, grinning like he’d accomplished something great.</p><p>Had I known what I did now, I would have told him such things came at a price, that for every drop of blood he offered, he would be expected to forsake more, until there was no flesh left to give. </p><p>“Then throw the book away.” I would have tossed it out for him, but I was afraid to touch it. “You don’t need it anymore.”</p><p>I didn’t know how else to appeal to him. Neither of us were pious children, but I would never dabble in such vile things. And Andrés- or at least, the Andrés I knew as a child, was not so depraved as to gamble his chance at heaven away. But that was before what happened next.</p><p>
  <em> “Tatiana?” </em>
</p><p>At the sound of Uncle’s voice, I forced Andrés to the window, hissing at him to run before we were caught. He scrambled away just in time. I, however, had nowhere to turn by the time Uncle entered my room.</p><p>“I heard his voice, the Fonollosa boy-”</p><p>“There was nobody here.”</p><p>But Uncle saw the mud on the floor, and fearing another beating, I ran before he could catch me. Uncle cursed at me then. He lost his temper for the second time and I was scared out of my wits. </p><p>I remember Naranjita on the stairs.</p><p>I remember Uncle coming up behind me.</p><p>I remember his wrist on my hand.</p><p>I remember twisting away. </p><p>And I remember tumbling down the stairs.</p><p>I believe I landed on my head. My neck snapped on impact but it hardly mattered by then. I can’t recall the pain. Only the sharp sting of my fall.</p><p>Then, Martín, I died.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>You’d think I would remember more details about something as important as my own death. Sadly, I don’t. Death was like a dull dream, halfway between sleeping and waking with an empty head. I could sense what happened around me, but I felt nothing in return. Perhaps if I’d died more pleasantly, I would feel more at peace. For me, it was more of a suffocating stillness, the need to weep for no particular reason.</p><p>I heard Dies Irae for the last time at my funeral. </p><p>I’m unsure if I would have gone to heaven eventually or if I would have remained in purgatory, if I was even <em> in </em> purgatory. Perhaps my spirit- the wretched thing- was too stubborn to leave my corpse just yet, so I had to suffer through each stifling bit of the village’s grief.</p><p>Uncle cried for me, as did the choir master and some of the Fathers. I was not a beloved child, but I was a child nonetheless and the village felt my loss. In my bones, I wondered when they would forget me, perhaps a month from then. </p><p>I can remember my casket though. I was laid to rest in a black dress, a red ribbon in my hair. They’d even taken care to bandage my neck so I would not look so broken at the wake. </p><p>Andrés wasn’t at the funeral. He had been forbidden from coming. And knowing Uncle, he likely blamed Andrés for my death as well.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>A part of me lingered by Andrés afterwards, perhaps because he was the only one who knew me properly. But I no longer judged him, because I was too numbed to make sense of the world of the living.</p><p>Whatever he did to improve Sergio’s health, it was short-lived. His brother took a turn for the worse again, and it was evident that the babe would die. Andrés never left Sergio’s deathbed in those days, keeping vigil even when his father wept himself to sleep. It might be arrogant to say so, but I think my death was what broke him in the end.</p><p>Something snapped within Andrés the day of my funeral. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He knew how hated he was, what little he had. And he knew for certain there were only two people in the world that loved him. Me and his baby brother.</p><p>Now those two people were gone. And faced with that prospect, Andrés realized it was too much to bear. </p><p>He made his decision quickly. Like a snap of a finger. He never hesitated over anything, no matter how agonizing a choice he was forced to make. And trust me, Martín, he did agonize. He was barely twelve, a boy with nothing and no one left, except a village that hated him and a father that wanted nothing to do with him. </p><p>It was with these thoughts weighing on his shoulders that he returned to the cemetery. He followed the sound of whispering stones and rustling tongues, through the cracks in trees and wilting petals, until he came to the roots where his mother died above. Her bones lay buried in the dirt beneath his soles, twisted in ivy and festering with ghosts.</p><p>This time, however, the voices made themselves known. The branches gnarled, and like fingers, cupped his jaw. A figure loomed over him, a creature cold to the touch, misted with wood and shadow. If you looked at its face, perhaps you could see a smile.</p><p><em> “You came back,” </em> it said.</p><p>“You lied to me,” Andrés spat, “Sergio’s still dying. And-”</p><p>He clenched his teeth, shuddering when those wooden claws twisted his head towards my grave. The creature bent, until its face was by Andrés’ ear, sharp teeth close enough to bite.</p><p><em> “You want her back,” </em> it whispered, <em> “you ask for a lot, boy.” </em></p><p>He breathed. Then, “Can you do it?”</p><p>It laughed at him. All the shadows did. <em> “But what will you give in return? We know you, Andrés. You’re a selfish little thing, as rotten as they come.” </em></p><p>Andrés shuddered again. “I can give you anything.”</p><p>It poked at his neck, until a bead of blood slipped out. A leaf brushed his face, a kiss to the cheek. </p><p>
  <em> “Such a lovely face for such a wicked boy.” </em>
</p><p>They said the same things to him as the village always had. Andrés had long since stopped caring for the villagers’ words. But this was different. This time, he believed them.</p><p>
  <em> “How do we know you won’t cheat us, Andrés? Isn’t that what you are, a liar?” </em>
</p><p>“I never lied to you.”</p><p>
  <em> “You said you loved them, the girl and your brother. That’s a lie- do you know why, Andrés?” </em>
</p><p>The branches pulled him close, locking him in an iron hold as they scraped past fabric and skin. Until blood touched his chest.</p><p>
  <em> “Because you’re a heartless, selfish thing-” </em>
</p><p>But the shadow grinned nonetheless, casting a palm over Andrés’ eyes. <em> “Just like us. So we can help you. Do exactly as we say, and let us take our rightful dues.” </em></p><p>It dropped him and Andrés crumpled like a doll. Perhaps he wept, but I’ve come to learn that there’s little difference between the sound of Andrés sobbing and Andrés laughing.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>He uncovered the dirt from my grave and pried the coffin open.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Andrés returned to his home with a root from his mother’s tree. He pulled it in half and chewed the top. It tasted bitter, like copper and salt. But he swallowed regardless. The rest of the root, he ground to powder and dipped in sugar before sneaking it into Sergio’s mouth. </p><p>He stole Sergio from his crib and took him to their father’s cellar. There in the dark, he tore pages from the leather book. He scattered and burned them with fire from the kerosene lamp. Sergio had been too weak to cry.</p><p>I was already in the cellar, a crumpled heap of dirt and decaying flesh. His fingers torn from defiling my grave, Andrés combed my hair with his bloodied hands, so close to the color my hair once was. He pulled the ribbon from my head.</p><p>I saw him wrap it around Naranjita’s neck, the last of what he was told to steal. And none the wiser, she nuzzled my cold head.</p><p>Then placing Sergio at the center, Andrés drew upon the floor, patterns and symbols made from his own blood. He sliced the same knife across his forearm, again and again until he had enough to paint across each board of wood.</p><p>Andrés worked for hours, oblivious to the passing of time or the daze of blood loss, lost only in the fever of his goals. </p><p>~~o~~</p><p>When I woke up, it was to the sight of Andrés bent over me, his body racked with shivers. Every part of him trembled, that face more ashen than it had ever been. Have you ever seen someone with a damaged spirit, Martín? In the literal sense?</p><p>That was what the ritual had done to Andrés. He’d obeyed the shadows and bargained his soul away. But they didn’t take it all at once, no. Slowly, bit by bit. And I could see it then, where they had gnawed away at his spirit. This was a pain that would only get worse, not better, with time.</p><p>But he smiled when he saw me nonetheless, some blood on his lip, of which he’d no doubt coughed. It was a hollow grin, more of relief than happiness, but I doubt he could tell the difference. I, however, was horrified.</p><p>He was so pale, Martín, like a corpse himself, and so sharp in the dark. </p><p>“Andrés?” I whispered.</p><p>“Tatiana, you’re alright, you’re alright now-”</p><p>Sergio was crying, cradled in Andrés’ bleeding arms, his cheeks rosy, a healthy flush to his skin for once. There was a vigor to him that Andrés now lacked. In one night, he and Andrés had switched humors. And if Andrés had it his way, Sergio would never know why.</p><p>“Andrés, what did you do?” </p><p>“Tatiana-”</p><p>I sat up, light on my feet, overcome by the stench of blood and wood. Something was wrong with me, I knew. Something very wrong. Because I saw myself on the floor, still a crumpled corpse with the lips sewn shut.</p><p>I felt my neck, gaping at what I found. The ribbon.</p><p>My eyes flicked to what I had assumed were hands. I don’t think I quite processed the severity of how wrong this was. My mind was still much too numb after so long in disuse. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I had come back to life until I felt the senses assault me- sound, scent, sight, touch. But I had enough wits about me to know this was not my body.</p><p>Naranjita was nowhere to be seen. </p><p>“Tatiana- listen-”</p><p>I hissed at him. A real hiss. My claws whipped across his face.</p><p>“I hate you!” I screamed, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”</p><p>Andrés reached for me again, but I wanted nothing to do with him. In my blind rage, I ran from the cellar. I had nowhere to go and nowhere in mind. I only wanted to get away from him.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Of course <em> you </em> would side with Andrés. Let’s see how you feel when he puts your soul inside a pig. Fine, fine, I’ll tell you what happens next.</p><p>My reaction was nothing compared to how Marquina and Uncle reacted. My uncle had found my grave desecrated and my body gone, broken straight out of the casket. Señor Marquina had found Sergio missing from the crib on the night he brought a priest over to help the babe into death.</p><p>They found their answers in Marquina’s cellar. Andrés hid in the corner, holding Sergio to his chest. He was still shivering, rocking himself back and forth while Sergio slept. And my corpse lay on the ground, the floor bloodied with enough evidence to send Andrés to hell twice over.</p><p>“Get away from him!” Marquina cried, “get away-”</p><p>He snatched Sergio from Andrés’ embrace, and despite how weak the night had left him, Andrés grappled with him for his brother. As if afraid Sergio would die as soon as he left his grip. For those efforts, Marquina smacked him away and his first son’s head slammed against the floor.</p><p>It was the priest that cradled and cried over my body. Uncle had been too busy dragging Andrés up the stairs.</p><p>They caused such an uproar that nearly the entire village turned up to see the commotion. I watched from the bushes, unsure how I wanted this to end. I watched Uncle throw Andrés into the dirt, kick his ribs, throttle him and smash his face in soil. I watched Marquina do nothing, say nothing.</p><p>The villagers didn’t cheer this on, but they too watched. I heard the cries of horror when the priest arrived with my body in his arms, the yells for Andrés to pay for his sins. I suppose they could burn him at the stake or maybe lock him away forever, but what punishment could be worse than what he’d already endured?</p><p>There used to be a grudging tolerance for Andrés’ presence in the village. Because Marquina acknowledged him as a son and despite the rumors, Andrés was only a boy. The village lost its patience with him that night, and with it, any shred of tolerance. What he had done was unforgivable. </p><p>And they would make sure he knew it.</p><p>So I watched the boy who I once loved, rise on his bruised knees, already so wounded and weak, and face the rage of men and women more than twice his age. They threw stones at him, spat at him, cried for him to leave town if not for his death, and the whole while, he never said a word.</p><p>His attention was on his brother only. And somehow- through the last bit of strength he had- Andrés stole Sergio from his father’s arms. </p><p>And he ran.</p><p>He limped away, in spite of the stones at his back, the crowd crying for his capture, the threats of damnation. In spite of it all, he escaped their blows, if only by a fraction.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>His feet brought him to the church, perhaps by blind instinct. But I believe otherwise. I think this was this final gambit, a last act of desperation. It had dawned on him the gravity of his actions and now he sought forgiveness, and if not that, some thread of light to pull him from what he’d done, away from the path that was now so clear.</p><p>And even that thread was denied him.</p><p>A drop of rain hit my head. And his as well, because Andrés looked up. What should have been the first rays of daybreak was replaced by grey clouds. And what should have been rain came out red.</p><p>Droplets fell, bit by bit, until the rain began to pour. And the scent of iron, neither of us could mistake. It rained blood.</p><p>Crimson splashed upon the towering church, into the tears of its saints and martyrs. That was how the mob found Andrés, standing before the church, cradling Sergio in his trembling arms.</p><p>“You did this,” Uncle accused.</p><p>And perhaps fearing retribution, the villagers stopped moving, unwilling to pursue Andrés further. Only Marquina remained at the front, urging Andrés to return his son, his<em> real </em>son.</p><p>Andrés, I think, was trying to make sense of the scarlet rain as well. It drenched him, his clothes, his face, his cuts. He tilted his head skyward, just enough to face the sun that no longer existed for him. And the church that would never welcome him again. That perhaps never did. He sighed, soundless, as the blood slipped past his lips.</p><p>“I love you,” he whispered to the babe, “I love you, hermanito, don’t forget it.”</p><p>Andrés pressed a kiss Sergio’s brow, at last assured that his brother would not die without his presence. Because he now realized his presence would do more harm than good. Sergio was unlike him. Sergio still had a chance to enter heaven’s gate. <em> An ironic statement, no?  </em></p><p>So Andrés limped to where his father stood. He gave the babe up and when Marquina took Sergio back, he looked to Andrés. Weeping, he ordered the boy to never return.</p><p>“I won’t,” Andrés said.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>They abandoned Andrés in the rain. It poured through the day and only let up by dusk. Andrés would have no shelter from the rain, not if he stayed near the village, but I knew where to find him.</p><p>He was lying atop a gravestone, a large carving dedicated to his grandfather, when I arrived. He was still shaking, pallid as ash, and covered with blood, some wet, some dry. And in a trembling hand, he held a match, the flame above his swollen eye.</p><p>He looked utterly pathetic, like the very life had been cut out of his being. And you could say that comparison wasn’t far from the truth. I assure you Andrés made sure he would never be so unsightly again. That was the first and last time I saw his clothes reduced to tattered rags, every bit of skin and hair soaked in red.  </p><p>“Andrés?” I ventured softly, coming to rest by his head.</p><p>He smiled, but he didn’t turn to look at me. And again, there was no smile in his eye, only a loose sorrow that I would come to recognize over the years. </p><p>“You came back,” he said, losing breath with each word.</p><p>I licked away the blood at the edge of his hairline. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”</p><p>“You’re my angel,” he mumbled. It sounded like he meant it.</p><p>“Bleh. If I was an angel, I wouldn’t be friends with <em> you.” </em></p><p>He chuckled at that, the barest hint of a laugh. The match almost slipped from his grip, but he held tight, even as the flame burnt his thumb.</p><p>“What are you doing with that?” I asked, and to my irritation, I instinctively nuzzled Andrés in the jaw.</p><p>He shut his eyes, that false grin coming back, and for a moment I thought he’d fallen asleep until he spoke again. “It’s my birthday. I thought maybe, it’s not too late to make a wish.”</p><p>“What did you wish for?” </p><p>“To die with dignity.” He blew the match out. And I came to rest upon his chest. “I can’t die here, not like this, not yet.”</p><p>“Now that you told me, your wish won’t come true.” I nudged him with a paw. “You’ll be run over by a horse.”</p><p>He laughed again, a spot of mirth returning. Then he hugged me close, and we remained that way through the night, curled together on a dead man’s stone. It was the coldest night of my life, but what little warmth we had was enough. And at the very least, the damned shadows left us alone.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>“This place was never meant for me,” Andrés had said, some time after we left his grandfather’s grave.</p><p>At dawn, we took one last look at the church before we left the village behind for good. It rained blood once more when we took our leave, as if the sky itself was bidding Andrés, <em> good riddance.  </em></p><p>But it was not the last time we walked under crimson water. I’ve come to realize that the rain was bound to Andrés, as if those wretched demons were making a point. Perhaps to taunt him with what they’d taken, they turned his flesh and blood to rain. Blood from the sky came to signify his arrival. It always rained red before Andrés arrived at a new town, just as it rained when he left. </p><p>Looking back, I have reason to believe Andrés hoped for a different outcome. There was a line between him and everyone else, we always knew, but I was unaware of just how badly he’d wished to cross that line.</p><p>I should have known from the day I met him on the balcony. He allowed himself to be strung from such a great height because he yearned for great heights. He chased heaven because he was told he was bound for hell. And the higher he aimed, the worse he fell.</p><p>There was no one to catch him as he fell, but there were plenty who watched. But by then, Andrés had turned his fall into an art. He would never fly, but he could glide. He could at least land in hell with grace.</p><p>“Tatiana, you can’t live life without pain,” he often said to me, “it’s a matter of perspective. The greater the weight of death, the greater the value of life.”</p><p>So Andrés took to his new life with a twisted passion. My uncle was the last man who ever laid a hand on him. Andrés never let anyone pound his face into the dirt again. He’d sooner kill a man himself.</p><p>Because there was nothing to limit Andrés now. He knew he was dying and he knew there was no respite after death The demons that led him there were a cruel lot. We knew they would never allow him to die a dignified death, that they were biding their time to tear him to bits. They only allowed him to live so long because he would not be missed. Or maybe it was more fun to break apart his soul little by little rather than all at once.</p><p>He grew sicklier by the day and his pain, worse. But Andrés learned to live with it, as he had learned to live with many other things. Until those pains meant nothing. For decades even, he never complained of it. He laughed, he danced, he did whatever pleased him because, not in spite, of what plagued him.</p><p>I don’t know how much of Andrés remains. The eternal soul is not something to trifle with, as anyone can attest. It’s what lies at the core of us all, the essence of a person, if you will. If we were to lose our brains, our livers, our limbs, I have no doubt we’d be changed- fundamentally. Then what of a soul? How much of someone could possibly survive if he lost something like that? </p><p>I don’t know the answer, Martin, and I know for a fact that Andrés would never tell us.</p><p>But I’ll tell you this. I still wonder how much of <em> me </em> remains in this body. When I hear my thoughts, is it Naranjita or is it Tatiana? Am I a cat who thinks herself a woman, or a woman trapped in a cat? My senses are Naranjita’s, my sentiments are Tatiana’s, but my life? I’m only certain that I live on borrowed time.</p><p>And Andrés was doing the same.</p><p>He had already given the core of himself away-- he had nothing left to lose. You can’t expect Andrés to value life, not when he never saw any reason to value his own.</p><p>I’ll share another anecdote with you. Andrés murdered a man when he was fifteen. I don’t even remember the poor fellow’s face. Just imagine a cobbler, average height, perhaps around forty, amused by the sight of a cat and a boy bound in a raggedy cloak. Andrés had wandered in as if the man owed him, despite his bare muddied feet and the rips in his trousers.</p><p>“I want a new pair of shoes,” Andrés had instructed him, “leather.”</p><p>The idiot laughed. “Really, boy? You can pay for that? Look at you- you’re a rat without a coin to your name.”</p><p>“I’ll pay you back when I have the money. I’m a man of my word.”</p><p>“I don’t do business with filthy liars.”</p><p>One of those words set Andrés off- filthy, or perhaps liar. I’m not proud to say I cheered him on when he dragged his knife across that man’s throat. While the cobbler lay choking, Andrés took his pick of shoes. He tried on each pair and when he found the right one, he said to the dying man, “These shoes aren’t to my taste, but they’ll have to do. How much do they cost?”</p><p>When he heard the pained gurgles in reply, Andrés smirked and said, “Really? A gift? How kind of you, sir.”</p><p>Then we left. Andrés whistled, hands behind his head, and told me he would swipe some fish from the lovely little market ahead. I don’t know if the cobbler had a family to mourn him, but I doubt Andrés cared.   </p><p>Ironically, it was because he valued the living so little that he learned to value the dead. </p><p>True, he could have gotten by through stealing and killing. He was talented at both, but he would always demand respect. A damned man would never earn anyone’s respect, but fear was another matter. And for Andrés, fear was just as good a substitute.</p><p>So he claimed to speak with the dead for one year. One year became two, and two became ten.  For a price, he could conjure spirits and sometimes expel them. The dead got along with him because he was already halfway a ghost himself. On occasion, when the reward was alluring enough or if he found himself bored enough, Andrés would raise his clients’ loved ones from the dead.</p><p>All it cost him was another chunk of his soul. So long as he lived, these corpses- silent and rotting and mere shades of their former selves- could stay on Earth. For the ones that loved them, it was a fair price to pay. </p><p>Andrés always left with a tip of his hat, me burrowed in his coat. He was never welcome anywhere for long. But when they called him the <em> necromancer, </em> it was out of respect. When they called him a demon, it was out of fear. And when it rained red in his wake, they shut their doors and prayed.</p><p>For Andrés, it was all in good fun, a brief distraction from his declining health. I can’t say I enjoy this manner of living, but I made my choice that night in the cemetery. I’m not one to second guess myself. And I suppose that’s how I was able to stay with Andrés until now.</p><p>I often wonder what would have happened if things were different for Andrés, if his mother never died, if I never fell down those stairs, if his father had loved him, if his brother was not so sickly, if just one person in the whole of our village had been kind enough to offer him a smiling face-</p><p>Perhaps he would still be in the church now, painting the ceilings with his expert brush instead of bandaging the scars on his arm. But I never saw the point in crying over spilled milk.</p><p>Maybe Andrés would have lived to be eighty years old if we continued wandering with no end in sight. He had nothing to lose so the demons had nothing to take. So what changed, Martín? That’s an easy answer.</p><p>He met <em> you. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Firstly, thank you to everyone who's shown interest and support for this story! I honestly didn't expect it to get as much support as it did, and I want to say again that I truly, truly, TRULY appreciate every bit of encouragement it received- thank you all so much for giving it a chance, and for encouraging another chapter! It took me this long to update because I didn't really know where to take it from ch.1, but I do now ;)</p><p>Secondly, I also thought 1 more chapter was all I would need LMAO. Change of plans- there's one more chapter to wrap this up, and hopefully this structure works better. That said, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter regardless, and promise that the next update will be soon!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Andrés had passed plenty of dying men on the road. Sometimes he stopped to flip their pockets. Most of the time, he hummed while he stepped over their heads, not a thought in his mind for their dying breaths. If he was feeling generous that day, he might put them out of their misery but I can’t say much else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I don’t know what compelled him to stop that day, outside Palermo. We found a man lying in the alley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like a drunk,” I whispered to Andrés.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “Why don’t we take a closer look?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t wanted to join him, but Andrés held the umbrella and I had no intention of letting the blood rain soak my fur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This man did not make a pretty picture on the ground. His left eye was swollen blue, blood stained the collar of his open shirt, and his hair fanned out in oily streaks. His scraped lips were parted, and I noted a missing tooth. If anything, he looked like he’d been knocked out in a rather one-sided fight. And the red rain fell on him relentlessly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés loomed over him, sliding the umbrella just enough to shield that man from the sky’s blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was how you met Andrés, wasn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You cracked open an eye, and however painfully, you managed to sit up. You stared up at him and I wondered what you would do- curse him or cry? But you said nothing. I can imagine how it was for you:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You saw the brim of his hat first. He smiled down at you with that crooked grin, and you were taken. Taken with those dark eyes, that quirk of his head, the shape of his coat. You saw the rain next, the blood splattering his umbrella, and yourself in his shadow- the shadow of the one man who ever shielded you from anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You fell for him before you even knew what it meant to fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That looks like an uncomfortable way to sleep,” he told you, “you must be very brave or very stupid to stay out here like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I believe you said, “Fuck you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And you collapsed, forward. He caught you before you could hit the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s as I said, Martín, we were never allowed to stay in one place for long. The ending never changed for Andrés. A new town, new city, new faces, new tongues. He would work his miracles, bask in the adoration that followed, and wait for the inevitable condemnation to spread. It never took long for words of gratitude to become cries of blame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As a boy, he’d resented this. As a man, Andrés took it in stride so long as there was money to be made and heads to scare-- and if time allowed, women to bed. Oh, he called it “love,” but I would be an imbecile to believe him, for Andrés had grown to be a vain, pretentious thing and he knew as well as I that someone like him could never love as he wished. That part of him had been burnt to ash long ago. So he delighted in being the center of fear and hate instead because, I think, it was all he ever knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the contrary, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the one who grew to hate this pattern. I’d grown sick of being chased from town to town. I was sick of watching Andrés break himself apart for idiots who didn’t know the first thing about his work, only for the very same persons to cast him out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Andrés never stayed to see the torches and pitchforks come his way. The last time someone threatened him with fire, he’d held up his umbrella and laughed. When the rain fell that evening, it drowned the streets with blood and no match withstood its red. Andrés had walked away whistling, me upon his shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is business,” he’d tell me, “nothing more, but certainly nothing less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t expected Palermo to be any different. When we arrived, I had been most interested in the local seafood. You know, as a child, I had always preferred pork to fish- I can hardly recall the taste of anything else now. Andrés had only been concerned with our lodging. The monastery was out of question and though he liked to gamble with his luck at inns, it was more likely that he would buy a room above a tavern and demand its workers serve him like downstairs staff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then you came along, despite my best efforts to steer Andrés away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After you collapsed, I told Andrés to get rid of this man. But he insisted on keeping you, like some kind of wounded bird. Maybe it was Naranjita’s jealousy speaking, or maybe I sensed you would lead him to trouble. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t pinch me- you know I’m right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I detect envy, Tatiana?” he said to me. “You’d rather I leave this poor fellow to die?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” I growled, “I just don’t like him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grinned, ruffling a hand through the crown of my head. “Don’t worry, gatita, I would never replace you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I poked him with a claw. “Will you say the same thing when he stabs you to death in your sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He won’t do that.” Andrés stood, hoisting you over his shoulder as if he knew you for years. “Because I have you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mistake me for a dog. Cats do not give their loyalty blindly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then laughing, Andrés invited me into his coat. He folded the umbrella and as the rain soaked his shoulders, ran back to the tavern, where he did exactly as I said he would.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Andrés ignored my warnings, we nursed you through the night. He washed your cuts, bandaged the cuts on your side, sewed the wound on your crown. You were fast asleep, so I doubt you remember. But he was tender, Andrés. I hadn’t seen him that tender in years, not since he held his brother in his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looped brown thread through a needle, and that same thread, he broke with his teeth. He said the color was closer to the tone of your flesh, that the stitches would heal better if they were pleasing to the eye. When he finished, Andrés left the bed to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and I reclined on the chair, and looking out the window, Andrés told me through a glass of wine, a slight tremble in his fingers, “The rain stopped early this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t noticed. My eyes were on our new companion. The truth is, Martín, I don’t care about why you fell for Andrés. I was always more interested in how he fell for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you awoke, who did you see first Martín? If I remember correctly, you sneezed in my face. Then you smelled a whiff of citrus from the other side of the bed, where Andrés sat peeling an orange. He placed a slice in his mouth, a smile crooked as he bid you, “Good morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” you said, hoarse and dizzy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saved your life. Surely I deserve a better greeting than that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You sat up then, wincing. I remember the way your gaze darkened, like a storm brewing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Maybe I didn’t want to be saved. Did you ever stop and think about that?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés closed his mouth, chewing away at his orange, sucking the juice down his throat. When he finished, he licked his finger and said, “I only do what pleases me. It pleased me to see you live, so here we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You held a hand to your side, perhaps because you stretched the wounds. Or maybe it was a stray’s instinct, the defense of a man born to live and die on the streets. Then you chuckled at him, coldly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re him, aren’t you? That necromancer? The one with the talking cat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés cocked his head. “What do you think, my friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you’re full of shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“And you’re not?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>I said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés ate another slice through his new grin. You actually fell out of bed, tangled in the covers like spider’s prey. And the more you suffered, the more we reveled in it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” you cried.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come now,” Andrés laughed, “what happened to all that bravado?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get away from me-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was when Andrés reached over, clasping his hands over yours. “I won’t hurt you, my friend. So don’t give me any reason to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cast you a shark’s sneer. And I saw the gulp in your throat. I’d assumed it was fear in your veins. Now I know it was something else entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, you didn’t really see the cat first, did you Martín? When light first trickled into our room, I saw it touch your eyelashes. There was blue underneath. You were looking at Andrés, afraid to let him know you’d awoken, if only to watch him for just a bit longer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés never answered me when I asked him why he saved you that day. But he never asked me why I was so against his choice either, I think, because he knew why already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, how do you want me to recount what happened next? Should I go through it in detail, describe every nick on your chin and every rotten word you threw our way? Should I recall the scent of fear in your musk, or the salt of your tears at night? In those days, Martín, you were as much a puzzle to me as Andrés no doubt was to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I assumed you would leave after coming to. You’d certainly expressed your disdain for us. But you didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Andrés tipped his hat at you, he took his leave, and the door stayed open behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take care of our friend,” he’d told me, with that same whimsy he’d picked up over the years, “if he’s still here when I return, we should all go out to supper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only if he pays,” I said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And laughing sharply, Andrés left. Then it was just you and me. I could tell that you were braver without his presence. You were less intimidated by me, perhaps, but your gaze was still unsettled, though your demeanor relaxed. And once your guard fell, I sensed a familiar foolhardy arrogance underneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you going to leave?” I asked you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did he go?” you growled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Since you chose to be so rude, I had no reason to be civil. “Where the hell do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bit your lip, biting enough to draw blood. “The De Rossi family. They lost their daughter two months ago- they hired him, didn’t they? To get her back?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I lay on the floor, settling so I could groom my paws. “You know a lot about this city. How long have you lived here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stretched my claws. “Or did you have something to do with the De Rossi girl’s death? Andrés told me she was only nineteen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You looked down at your hands, fingers coiling over fingers, loose hair falling over your eyes. I couldn’t see what you were thinking, but I could feel the unease in your frame. No, anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She died the day before her wedding,” you said, quite hollowly, “and it depends on who you ask- they’ll say I killed her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I was intrigued. I placed my paws under my chin. My tail flicked. You see, Martín, I knew you were innocent. After so many years with Andrés, I had developed a knack for these things. Everything about you painted a picture of a man who shouldered the guilt for a crime he did not do, who had been blamed for so long that he believed himself at fault.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you do it?” I wondered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said, depends on who you ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You got up then, and limped out the doorway. I expected that to be the last I saw of you, and truth be told, I was relieved. But you were nothing, if not full of surprises. Because I soon learned you’d only gone out to bathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You returned with nothing but a damp towel wrapped around your waist, bits of water dripping from your head. I remember hissing at you-- I did so hate to be touched by water. But you seemed to have predicted this because you already had a saucer of milk in your hand. I’m ashamed to say that it appeased me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without a word, you set the saucer down in front of me. Then you returned to bed, and hands folded above your chest, you looked out the window and waited. I watched the morning light halo your drying hair, a line of white sculpting through the profile of your nose and cheek. Under the sour color of bruises and cuts, you were the opposite of Andrés. Round and rugged, as much earth as he was soot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, you reminded me of the saint painted on the windows of our childhood chapel, the holy man that blessed the church five centuries ago. I never told you his name, did I? We knew him as Saint Martín.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Andrés returned, he was as pale as I expected, fatigue behind a smile. Had the bed been unoccupied, he would have taken an hour or so to lie in bed-- sleep itself could do nothing to lessen the pain but at the very least, it allowed his body to rest. I’d learned that it was pointless to ask if he was well or not. Andrés would never be well again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he was excellent at pretending to be well, as you soon came to learn. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could you have known then? Don’t berate yourself, Martín. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, you gave Andrés quite the shock by remaining in bed. He, like me, must have assumed you’d be long gone. And he certainly couldn’t force you out when he was the one that invited you to stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I take it you’ve decided to dine with us?” he asked you as he removed his hat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You held your chin up and tapped the towel below your middle. “I can’t go out like this. Do you have a spare shirt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He regarded you with a slick grin, amused to the bone. “What’s your name, my friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martín Berrote.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You met his gaze, quite obviously expecting- no- demanding a reply. And because he was so tickled by your tone, my necromancer answered: “Andrés de Fonollosa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I admit that you impressed me as well, not so much with your person, but rather your conduct. As you no doubt guessed, Andrés was not easily challenged. And he’d come to take it for granted that all men would recoil in his presence. You, however, showed no fear, perhaps even less fear when you learned who he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I thought you quite thick-headed then. But I’ve come to see in you what he saw-- you weren’t braver than any other men, you were simply clever enough to see Andrés for what he was: flesh and blood, like anyone else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He loaned you a whole ensemble, from cravat to boots, and you accepted it without a lick of shame. When he changed behind you, you might have caught a glimpse of the blood on his discarded sleeves. If you did, you said nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So we went to dinner, the three of us, him speaking with you as if he’d known you for decades, you playing along, and me riding upon his shoulder. Naranjita’s instinct told me that meant you would stay. You fit with us nicely, like the last piece of a hidden puzzle. But my instinct was warier-- you see, Martín, you fit with Andrés too well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not a compliment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If we were to call Andrés a killer, a thief, a cheat, a monster, and whatever other title he’d collected for himself over the years, what does that make you, Martín? To have caught his eye, what does that say about a man like you? And the last thing he needed was someone to drag him farther into hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found a bistro not too far from the alley where we met you. I should not have been allowed in, but I was stealthy enough to slip past the waiter’s legs while Andrés chatted him up. It was hard to deny his requests when he put on the air of a man who would pay well. And by the time they found out who he was, he would have been long gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this time, the waiter barely paid him any mind. In fact, I would even say you were the one that gave him pause instead. You had quite the reputation in Palermo, didn’t you, Martín?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We ended up at a table facing the back garden, hidden from the sight of the other patrons and the bistro lights. Only a lone set of candles lit our dishes, though judging by Andrés’ cloudy gaze, he found the setting romantic. But you weren’t interested in the atmosphere or the prawn, which was just as well, since I made short work of your supper when you weren’t looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You went to the De Rossi house today,” you told Andrés while he sniffed his wine. It was not a question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And without looking up from his glass, he said, “I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your fingers, perhaps unconsciously, danced along the tablecloth. “Did you revive the girl?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a matter of perspective. I can’t repair what no longer works, but sometimes, all the family wants is an illusion of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Answer the fucking question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sipped, and casting you a sly grin, said, “I brought her back. She can’t speak. I doubt she recognizes her parents, but there’s a string of herself still in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pinched his fingers together. “Like a thread, Martín. I gave the De Rossis a thread to cling to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this thread- does it lead back to you?” You reached out then, hand wandering past Andrés’ glass to the bit of skin beneath his sleeve, where a piece of gauze sat around his wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head tilted. “You’re clever, my friend. Not an ordinary man, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You scoffed. “Depends on who you ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You leaned back in your seat, and scowled when you saw me spitting up the shells of your shrimp. You were too slow, Martín.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the girl’s groom?” you asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged. “They made no mention of him, except to say that he died with her that day. Now, you’re very interested in this case- why is that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did not like your voice, Martín. It reminded me of angry glass. But when you next spoke, I turned to listen. Your tongue was gentle, soft, a warm lilt I hadn’t thought possible from the likes of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His name was Matteo,” you told Andrés, something rippling in your eyes, “he was my apprentice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That intrigued him. No, I don’t think it was sympathy in Andrés’ gaze. But he had always been interested in gossip, especially when he wasn’t at the center of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I met him when he was fifteen,” you said, after a long gulp of wine, “his family didn’t approve of his association with me, but you know how youths are- the more his parents hated me, the more he adored me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laughed. “He was the only student I ever took in. A little too loud, but bright. I always told him he could surpass me if he put his mind to it, but he was more interested in-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand waved. “The fairer sex. I never thought he and De Rossi made a good couple, but they made each other happy. And what was I? Just an old hermit with some books, never really had a right to an opinion on this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So how did they die?” Andrés kept that smile on his face, perhaps as a cruel way to taunt you into saying more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laughed again. “Matteo wanted to turn lead to gold. Wanted to make a real big show of it for his lady love. He miscalculated- the study blew up. And- boom boom ciao.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You mimicked the explosion with a puff of your lips. Andrés said nothing, and neither did I.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés reached for the wine bottle, and tipping more into your glass, remarked, “Their families think you responsible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You offered no reply, and that was all the answer he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed the glass your way and asked, “What is it you do, Martín- who are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You beckoned him closer, blue eyes damp. Your eyes were very blue, Martín, a touch away from sapphire smoke, and if even I noticed, then Andrés surely did as well. I’d mistaken the light in your gaze for tears. Your light came from enthusiasm, and whatever grief you suffered for your apprentice, could not dull the love you had for your passion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard of alchemy?” you said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The study of transformation?” His smile split into a fox’s grin. “Turning metal into elixir? Tell me more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You held up an open palm. “Only an idiot would think you could achieve immortality with this. No, I turn metal into gold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could speak, you held up the other palm, leveling both hands before his eyes. “Mercury, lead, iron, tin, and if I’m lucky- gold and silver- that’s what I work with. I study the elements, grind them down to their nature, and melt them into something else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like magic?” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, magic comes from miracles. Alchemy-” You lowered one hand, as if tipping an invisible scale. “Comes at a price. You can only get the equivalent of what you put in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I saw then, that you were testing him. Oh, you were clever, Martín, far more clever than he gave you credit for. You knew why his wrist bled-- you had known from the start what his work entailed. Because what you practiced was not so different.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what price did your boy pay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you.” Your hands fell, and arms crossing, you leaned back in your chair. “His life. I never let him work alone. There are things he’s too impulsive to grasp- my work requires calculation, patience. Just lighting a fire and boiling metal? That’s not alchemy. That’s recklessness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could stay silent no longer. “So you weren’t there when he died. You knew the risk and left your tools to him anyway, all because you disliked his bride. Ah, what a petty, selfish man you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If my words were too sharp back then, I apologize. I know you never meant for that young couple to die. But Andrés was too taken with your words, your language, your passion. He saw the vigor- the life- in you that he would never regain. Perhaps you couldn’t tell then; you could only see the mask of curiosity on his face. But I knew him as I knew myself, and if I didn’t nip whatever interest he had in you in its bud, it would blossom into something terrible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And none of us would be able to fold its rancid petals back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tatiana.” Andrés looked at me with mock-offense, a dramatic hand above his heart. “What ugly things to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then still with that mockery in his mouth, he said to you, “Let him go, Martín. The boy’s death was not your fault. The bride and groom died together- I can’t think of a lovelier end. Besides-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You took a swig of wine. “The girl lives on, is that what you’re going to say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when he laughed, you told him gruffly, “I’ve never met a man who cared so little about other lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were correct about that. As far as Andrés was concerned, death was his bride, a scythe above his head, always looming as its shadow grew and stretched. He had read death his vows and in turn, it would never cast him from its claws. As such, you should take his insight about life with some doubt, but of death, no one understood it better than he.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you care too much,” he said to you, his teasing replaced with something else, a hint of truth that was just enough to reel you in, “Martín, it’s not your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was what you yearned to hear, wasn’t it? Perhaps not from the necromancer’s mouth, but another’s nonetheless. You wished for absolvement, and this drop of sympathy was enough. Andrés did not indulge in sympathy or compassion, and some would even say that such things were beyond his grasp. So trust me when I say-- he would not have said those words to you if he didn’t believe them to be the truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While you tormented yourself over what to believe, Andrés again tipped the bottle into your glass. “We leave Palermo at dawn. If you’re willing to join us, Martín- I would very much like to see your alchemy at work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My work?” you said. And for once, you smiled, a slanted smirk between your bruised lips. I knew what you believed in then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés.” His name rolled off your tongue for the very first time, as if it had always been waiting to say his name. “I can’t turn water to wine, but if you’re willing- I could melt gold with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we left Palermo, I clung to Andrés’ shoulder as it again rained red. But the umbrella shielded two men instead of one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I won’t repeat your own words to you, Martín. After Palermo, I knew there was no use in dissuading Andrés from his new companion. I admit I was cold towards you in those days, but if you thought me cruel, then Martín, I suggest you grow thicker skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The moment we left the city, it was as if you’d shed a burden from your shoulders, let it wash away with the rain. From then on, you acted as if you’d always been a part of our duo- no, trio. And you withheld nothing from Andrés, perhaps because you felt that he understood you in ways even you did not. Your shrouded past then, became an open book, a mystery that you gladly revealed to us with all the ease of a man speaking of the weather.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suppose that’s another thing Andrés admired about you, the weightless way you carried your pains. He could pretend to accept his burdens, yes, but I could always see the toll it took on him. You, however reluctant, accepted it fully, no questions asked. This acceptance, he’d yet to achieve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is what you told him, bits and pieces I recall in passing: You were born with a silent heart. It never beat, and because the midwife thought you dead, your father almost buried you before you opened your eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You spoke of this on a moonless night, when Andrés was admiring the lilacs along the road. I found the story ludicrous, but you didn’t bother arguing with me. Instead, you asked Andrés if he wanted to hear, and when he pressed an ear to the fabric above your chest, you held his cheek while the wind blew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés would later tell me that you were right-- he heard nothing. I compared you to the dead bodies he dabbled with, but he disagreed. You were warm, he’d said, as warm as a distant hearth in winter snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your parents had different thoughts. Nothing they did could revive your heart, and yet you lived. Your blood pumped, and you were by all means, a regular babe. They could have called it a miracle. But they thought it was a curse. How can a child live without a beating heart? Unless it was no child at all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So they took you to the coast, far from your father’s house, and left you to die by the sea. And fortunately- or unfortunately, judging from your tone- a group of sailors found you shivering half to death. They raised you on the ocean, and I see that you never shed the rough tongue of your youth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You called them your companions, your teachers, your colleagues, but they were not friends, not fathers. When Andrés laughed over this, you told him that not everyone was fortunate enough to have a father. You said they taught you to read the stars and maps. They taught how to hold your own in a fight, how to kill and steal. But they regarded you as a servant more than anything else, the one to scrub the decks and empty buckets of waste.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until you met a man in Venice. An old dying monk who had been ousted from his monastery in Palermo. You were thirteen that year, and you left the sailors without a word. They never noticed that you were gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You swore apprenticeship to the monk, not because you admired him, but because you admired the intellect he could share. You were rather shameless when you told Andrés that you had little doubt that you could surpass your master. He was curious, for he’d never had a teacher. That was not quite true. He’d once had a mentor in the past, a painter that he wished to train under, but as it always was with Andrés, the man rejected him in the end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your master was the one that ignited your love for science. Ah, how could I forget the arguments you used to have with Andrés? You believed art to be a type of science, and he thought the opposite. Neither of you ever convinced the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old alchemist explained his practice to you, just as he bequeathed his laboratory to you. I don’t know if you ever loved the man. You spoke of him as you did the sailors, as if he was no more than a stepping stone for your ends. Was that why your heart refused to beat? Because you did not know how to love? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps it would have been a kindness to you if you had never learned how.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, your master died, sputtering blood from his lungs while you cleaned his brow. After you cremated him at his request, you made good on your promise to surpass his work. You understood the metals better than he ever could, and you had even started a project on transfiguring the soul. If your master had been shunned by the city, you endured far worse. They considered him a lunatic, but you, they thought you a heretic, and rumor had it that you were possessed by devil with a soundless heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You never attended mass. You never spoke with the locals unless you had to. And to make matters worse, you were quite open in your theories on what you believed the eternal soul to be. You thought it could be molded by men, that immortality was a process, not an outcome, and that you could find it in your gold. Of course, you’d given up on that notion by the time you met Andrés.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You told Andrés that you were unsure what it was that inspired you to accept an apprentice. You had been lying in bed with fever when you told him. I was curled at the foot of your bed, and Andrés had been dabbing your face with a wet rag. He never responded to your rambles, not when he knew you hadn’t meant for him to hear. But we heard regardless- you’re a loud man, Martín, even at your weakest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Matteo came knocking on your door, you left him outside for three days and nights. And impatient with his persistence, you finally allowed him in. He was a brighter mirror of you: fire to your ash, sun to your cloud, air to your smoke. For once, you felt needed, adored, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So you spoiled the boy. You allowed him anything and everything, and the true reason you disliked De Rossi had nothing to do with her vanity or Matteo’s future. You hated her for stealing your student, the closest thing you ever had to a son, and you hated him for allowing himself to be stolen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The root of your grief lay there. It was obvious to me, as it was to Andrés. You wondered of a different ending- if you had adored De Rossi as you adored Matteo, if you had not been so blinded by your envy, if you had the foresight of keeping them both from your lab. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So when their loved ones turned their rage towards your devilish ways, you accepted their anger. You became the target of their grief, and you felt it deserved. Matteo’s brothers and the De Rossi cousins-- they found you in the alley that day in Palermo, and perhaps not unlike the mob that surrounded Andrés in our village, they cornered you. And you refused to fight back. You’d given up on clearing yourself of the affair, on your quest to find the immortal soul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were a shell of yourself by the time Andrés stumbled upon you in the rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although you holed yourself up in your study, you had enough awareness to know what went on in the city. You could not have avoided whispers of the necromancer’s arrival, not when the De Rossi family actively sought for him. You knew of the red rain, and if you didn’t believe it, you were convinced when blood fell from the sky. Ironically, it was the necromancer’s rain that saved you from your beating. We might have found you dead if your assailants hadn’t been scared away so quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You told me that you’d thought of asking Andrés to revive Matteo, that moment in the alley. But you understood enough of the soul to know you could not damn the boy to that afterlife. So you bit your rage back instead. The answer to your troubles was standing before you, and you could do nothing but curse at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re a selfish man, Martín-- you never pretended otherwise. But you refused to disturb your beloved student’s peace, no matter how much your chest ached for his return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> Andrés save you? I think you reminded him of himself. Not who he’d become. Who he had once been, that little boy with nowhere to turn. Yes, it was a foolish whim on his part, because you were far from a boy. You were already a man somewhat past your prime, perhaps only a few years younger than Andrés himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did you stay then? Did his words enlighten you so much? Did he remind you of yourself? Or was it because-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you fell forward into his arms, your heart finally skipped a beat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing I did could chase you away, so I had no choice but to accustom myself to your presence. Before you came along, I would sometimes wander cobblestone roads in sync with Andrés’ feet. The edge of his coat often brushed against my back. I knew the texture as well as I knew my hairs. His coat was felt, a shade of black so dark that even dry blood could not stain for long.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t stroke my chin, Martín, you know I hate it when you do that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You knew I wasn’t fond of you at the start. Don’t act so surprised. I don’t think you were fond of me either. You liked to mention dogs around me, and sometimes, you even pretended to bark. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Run Tatiana, </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’d say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>there’s a mutt on our trail!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And if I happened to fall for it, you’d laugh your nasty chuckle. And since Andrés never berated you, I took it upon myself to scratch your ankles while you slept. As our little rivalry grew, Andrés regarded it without so much as a shrug. He rather enjoyed it, I believe. It was a change of pace, and he had always enjoyed being the center of attention, though in my opinion, it was less about how much I cared about him and more about how much I disliked </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But I adapted to your presence regardless, and I suppose you’d always had an affinity for felines at heart. I no longer followed the edge of a black felt coat. Sometimes I trailed behind knee-high boots, my nose brushing against the end of an old leather coat. You would take me in your arms, and rather naturally, put me atop your shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was less used to the crook of your neck as I was Andrés’ but in time, it was just as well. You became my companion as much as you were Andrés’. A friend? Ah, don’t flatter yourself, Martín, but perhaps something close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You worked well with Andrés, that much I always knew. There was a symmetry between the two of you, as selfish as it was selfless. You watched him steal, he watched you lie, and always, you two looked upon each other as if the world should thank you for your sins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés began to introduce you as the alchemist of Palermo, his esteemed partner. It was strange. In practice, his work and yours have no connection but your paths aligned regardless. He spoke to the dead, as he always did, and you measured what bits of spirit remained. Together, you turned resurrection into an art. Imperfect, of course, for these corpses remained tied to the strength of Andrés’ dwindling soul.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But you were able to restore the physical body to the way it once worked, before the worst of deterioration ravaged its functions. You taught Andrés the separation between body and soul, something he’d always considered the same. And if Andrés brought these lives back at the expense of his life, you restored their vigor at the expense of other poor wretches. A father’s blood for his son’s heart, a sister’s kidney for her twin’s breath, and so on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>These willing victims of yours always lived on, and you always assured them they would recover. They gladly paid the price for their loved ones, through money and through flesh. And they thanked you for it. You loved that feeling, didn’t you? The praise and worship, and their fate in your hands? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even when the locals inevitably turned on us, you bore it with a sideways smirk. Perhaps this was the thrill you’d searched for all your life. And you loved it so much that you never asked how Andrés raised the dead. You’d assumed he did it through his blood, and it never occurred to you to think it something else.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t let it trouble you, Martín. He took great pains to hide it from you. And the shadows had grown quiet over the years, having resigned themselves to a dull buzz in his veins. There was no way you could have heard them, even had you wanted to.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I think Andrés loved seeing you chase that thrill more than you loved hunting it. You regarded yourself as his shadow, his mirror, the one who worked to meet him halfway. As far as you knew, he was the moon in the sky that you were destined to never touch. But you were wrong-- he saw you as his equal, no, something more. It was Andrés who thought you too brilliant for the likes of him, so stubbornly, he clung on, perhaps to prove to you that he was every bit the worthy companion you imagined he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This became clearest to me on the journey to Toledo. I had my claws buried in Andrés’ shirt, his arm keeping me tucked within his coat while we climbed the stone steps. He’d told me to relax, that we would reach the top of the hill soon enough, but the stairs stretched on before my eyes, limestone in moss and steeper with each breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To make matters worse, the red rain had chosen then to fall. It poured above us, and his shoes nearly slipped against wet stone. He could not open the umbrella in that state, not without dropping me, so he’d given it to you. And I refused to climb these stairs in the rain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stone steps ran parallel with another set of stairs. Because each set was too narrow for one traveler, you walked opposite Andrés. You popped the umbrella open, shattering droplets of rain. And as the crimson rolled on, you held the umbrella above Andrés’ head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You know, Martín, I don’t think anyone had ever so much as held a door open for him. He didn’t say a word to you, not even a nod. But I could sense the imbalance in his next step, then another, until he’d convinced himself that this was as it should be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You blinked the rain from your eyes, and kept along his path, always holding the umbrella high enough to keep him dry. You were glad, weren’t you, that he never questioned this act? It wasn’t that he was ungrateful, Martín, quite the contrary. He hadn’t known how to react.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s that, you say? You were happy then? You wished to always shield him from the rain? </span>
  <em>
    <span>And in that moment, you decided you would</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you followed him up those stairs, not a step out of place. There was still quite a way to the top of the hill, but I think- as he hiked up, your hand gripping the umbrella by his side- that was when Andrés de Fonollosa fell for Martín Berrote.</span>
</p><p>
  <b>~~o~~</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Where was I, Martín? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toledo.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Ah, the start of our troubles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés had been promised a hefty fortune for his services this time around, and the amount was so great that he could not resist meeting his client. If it was an empty promise, Andrés would shrug his shoulders and move on. If not, then I would never hear the end of his boasts. I had my doubts about the man that summoned him, but this Salvador Murillo seemed earnest enough in his pleads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As you recall, he claimed to be a professor at the city’s finest boarding school, Santa Catalina, an establishment for noble young women. He also claimed that a 'plague' had overcome over their school, of the unspeakable sort, and as a final measure, he was writing with the headmistress’s permission:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am not a superstitious man,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d said in his letters,</span>
  <em>
    <span> but my colleagues and I have seen enough to believe there is no manmade explanation for these circumstances. If you’re wondering why we’ve yet to call in the clergy, it’s because we already have. I grow sick of amateur priests, and it was with great trepidation that I thought of you. Señor de Fonollosa, your reputation precedes you, and if you are as talented an individual as the rumors say, then I beg you, come to Toledo. We shall make it worth your while.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He certainly knew enough about Andrés to properly stroke his ego, and you were enough like Andrés to feed into that ego. So as always, I was the only one with my doubts, but I admit that I was unprepared for what we saw next. </span>
  <span>As the red rains swept through Toledo, Andrés took shelter in an inn at his client’s request. There, he released me from his coat, and while I shook myself dry, you propped the umbrella by the centermost hearth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until you removed your coat that you finally noticed the figure by the fireplace. You jumped, I remember, and cursed at his face. He was a tall fellow, properly dressed from head to toe in shades of earth, no wrinkle out of place. Waves of hair atop his head, and a bearded jaw. And despite his solemn mood, I sensed that he was younger than you both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of copper remained in my nose, but something else had tickled my senses as well, something on the tip of my tongue. I think it was the color of his eyes, foxlike behind his sliding spectacles. They were a grieving shade of brown. Andrés’ brown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if Andrés noticed, he didn’t react. He placed a hand upon your shoulder, laughed, and bowed before the fire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Professor Murillo,” he said, “Andrés de Fonollosa, at your service. And my partner-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then at his prompting, you added, “Martín Berrote, the alchemist of Palermo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The professor nodded, and although you two missed it, I caught the gulp in his throat. He looked at you first, then at Andrés, and there, his gaze lingered, as if he’d crossed a thousand years to find the other man. Andrés allowed him to stare, unwilling- or refusing- to prompt him on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés,” the professor whispered, voice barely above the crackling flames. And louder, he said, “I wasn’t entirely honest with you in my letters.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You responded before Andrés. “What’s that supposed to mean!? Are you saying, you can’t pay? I beg your pardon-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll compensate you both. I made a promise- this much is true.” With two fingers, the professor slid his glasses back in place, over the bridge of his nose.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I saw the nervous tremble in his thumb, and I knew Andrés did as well. Because Andrés’ smile was tight, pursed lips doing everything in their power to prevent a scowl of dread. He was frozen, unable to look away. And you, Martín, must have found his reaction strange.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Murillo is the headmistress’ name.” The professor swallowed again, a glint of water in his eyes. “My surname is Marquina. My name is-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and I uttered the next word together, each syllable jolting my ears like a clap of thunder:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“-Sergio.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! And please feel free to kudos/comment- I hope you're enjoying the way this is going!</p><p>Next chapter really is the end, promise!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ah ha ha ha, I thought this would be the last chapter :'D but guess not!! So in the last plot twist of 2020, there's going to be one more chapter. I decided to split up the events of this chapter and the next because 1) it'd be easier on the eyes omg and 2) this is a tragedy with a lot of negative emotions, and because 2020 was such a *wretched* year, I wanted to bottle up the darkest things in this fic before the new year. Like a spiritual "bye!"</p><p>That said, thanks for the patience and support (still in SHOCK that this story received the encouragement it did!) and I hope you enjoy the last update of 2020!</p><p>Chapter notes: dark imagery, self-harm, mentions of bullying/neglect, and a dash of serquel</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Murillo is the headmistress’ name.” The professor swallowed again, a glint of water in his eyes. “My surname is Marquina. My name is-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and I uttered the next word together, each syllable jolting my ears like a clap of thunder:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“-Sergio.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stiffly, Andrés tilted his head, hand settling on his tie, and coldly, he said, “Is that name supposed to mean anything to me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was going through your head then, Martín? What did you think that name meant? But you kept your features still, perhaps for Andrés’ sake. You had accompanied him long enough to pick apart his lies, and you must have known that the professor’s words had cut him to the bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés,” he-</span>
  <em>
    <span> Sergio</span>
  </em>
  <span>- said, “you know who I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés scoffed, clenching the knot of his tie until his knuckles blanched. “Arrogant, aren’t you, professor? But no matter. I don’t work for charlatans.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His tone was icy, as bitter as the rain outside, and even I winced when he spoke. But it had no effect on Sergio. The professor stood his ground, unmoving, unchanging, as if he’d made up his mind to brave the storm long ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés, please-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martín.” Andrés flicked his eyes towards you, and without another word to Sergio, you followed Andrés away, the umbrella folding in your grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watched you both walk towards the wooden staircase, spiraling up to the room ‘Murillo’ had promised him. You were at Andrés’ heels. Not because you were allowing him to lead you away, but I think, because you wanted to keep yourself between him and Sergio should the stranger attempt any harm. And you’d never tried to keep anyone from harm before, have you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you two were out of sight, I turned back to Sergio. Ah, Sergio,</span>
  <em>
    <span> hermanito. </span>
  </em>
  <span>I knew how I appeared as I looked at him, head craned upwards, eyes as wide as discs. At first, I saw no traces of that dying babe in the cradle, the crying infant in his brother’s arms. It was remarkable, really, how much he’d grown. This was a man in the flesh, his frame broad, and I suspect that should he wish it, he’d be as intimidating as they come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But when he lowered his gaze, I saw the same boyish temperament that Andrés once had. I remembered the village, the church, and Andrés hanging his head whenever he thought no one could see, perhaps to hold down a sniffle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a second, Martín, I was back in the groundskeeper’s house, watching Andrés tickle his baby brother with a grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It really is you,” I couldn’t resist saying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If my voice shocked him, Sergio didn’t show it, likely because he’d expected it. He crouched to my level, and I recognized the shape of his nose, the sadness in his eyes, the hesitation in his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tatiana?” he ventured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smiled at him, as much as my mouth allowed. And almost shyly, he put a hand to my head, fingers ruffling fur. He was much better at petting me than you, Martín.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You remember me?” I said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I could.” His voice was deep, almost a sigh. “They- your uncle, the priests- they talked about you, always. Your death was a tragedy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I couldn’t disagree with that. I placed a paw on his wrist and asked, “How did you know I lived?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio sat upon the floor then, gaze turning to the fire. “Because I was the one that should have died. As a child, the doctor came by often. I was told that I’d been sickly as an infant, dying, that it was a miracle I lived.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head, tired. “And I always felt like something was missing- I can’t quite describe it, but I spent my whole life grieving over a memory I couldn’t trace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until you did?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh Martín, I wanted to tell him what Andrés had lost for him, I wanted to tell him not to believe whatever vile things the village had said about his brother. I wanted to say it so badly, but I held my tongue, biting until it blistered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How, you’re asking?” Sergio glanced at me with a light smile, and I couldn’t help thinking of Andrés’ looping grin. “I questioned the story of your death. It was tied to my brother’s… disappearance. The villagers said he was conspiring with the devil. Others said he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a devil. They told me he killed you to please his master, and that he was going to do the same to me until the priests banished him from town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scratched my chin, myself unwilling to dignify his words with a response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His blood was tainted with a witch’s seed. That was what they believed, and their children too, and their children’s children now. But it didn’t line up for me, logically. If he was so wicked, why did my father claim him as a son in the first place? So I looked into the details of his mother’s death. Then I searched for the cause of yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio eyed me, perhaps checking to see if I was bothered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was no evidence that he killed you. In fact, your uncle said you’d slipped down the stairs while running after Andrés. At first, it baffled me as to how this was Andrés’ fault-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I spoke up then. “As far as your village was concerned, Andrés is the reason the sun sets at night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His thumb pressed into my nape, the start of a slow massage. “I learned that in due time. Then- in my fifteenth summer- I discovered a book in my father’s cellar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés’ infernal book, bound in leather and blood. That got a rise from me. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“He kept it?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’d tried to burn it, but nothing could destroy it. In the end, they had no choice but to store it in our house. The entire cellar was locked afterwards.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you snuck in anyway?” Hermanito, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded. “It took me some time to decipher what was inside, but I figured out enough. The night Andrés left, he was guilty of nothing. He was trying to save you. Trying to save me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio unrolled a sleeve, placing his forearm before my eyes. I saw the familiar shape of scratched scars. In disbelief, I pawed at them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I went to our grandfather’s grave, and I summoned them.” He didn’t bother telling me who </span>
  <em>
    <span>they</span>
  </em>
  <span> were. I already knew. And Sergio did as well. “We spoke. They showed no interest in me, but my blood kept them trapped for the night. They had no choice but to answer my questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I needed to listen, but my heart was already dropping like lead. How could he do this, after all that Andrés had done?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I quelled the urge to gouge sense into him with my claws. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did they say?” I rasped. What did you do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They said the girl’s soul was in the body of a beast. And that I lived by the boy’s will. I was the only one the necromancer truly revived in spirit and flesh, the only one that would live should he die. They spoke in riddles, but I understood when the sun rose-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran a finger over those light scars. “He traded his soul for mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I felt as if I was speaking to Andrés during the worst of his moods. I sensed the grief in Sergio, but I could not determine his thoughts. His mind was closed to me, and I realized that he was as much an enigma to me now as he was when he was an infant. What do you think, Martín? Was it guilt he felt? Relief? Or temptation? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fearing the latter, I asked- careful, slow, “How long… since you last spoke to the sha- </span>
  <em>
    <span>them?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four months.” Seeing my alarm, he was quick to add, “There’s no pattern to it. I seek them out when I need answers, and they come to me in corners.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Corners?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Behind stairwells, under bridges-” His eyes fell on the hearth. “Inside fires. We speak through crackles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I watched his skin, imagining blood breaking from scars. He folded the sleeve back down, and as if he knew what I was thinking, admitted to everything. I don’t know if it was because of Andrés’ spirit in his veins or if it was because of the natural fire burning through his own blood-- perhaps both. Sergio did not grow up to be the docile saint Andrés hoped he would. Quite the opposite, really, despite how reserved he appeared. I could tell as he spoke, that Sergio was as calculating as they came, every bit as capable of sin as his brother, perhaps worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But a smidge nobler. And that smidge made all the difference to me, as it no doubt would to Andrés. Sergio’s path was not yet damned, just as we had wished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out, Martín, that Sergio had been following us. And the book wasn’t the only thing to blame. Yes, he yearned to know his brother, and yes, he yearned to learn the truth behind his departure. But that desire was eclipsed by his drive to accomplish his impossible goals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You see, Sergio detested the hold our clergy had on his home. In place of devotion, he saw corruption, and in place of divinity, he saw hypocrisy-- lie upon lie until he could take no more. The people had heaven on their lips, and hellfire in their hands. The village had damned itself, he believed, and it all came together for him when Señor Marquina died, his health demolished of the graves he tended. Sergio saw the cemetery as a warning, not a curse, and his father’s whole life had been devoted to keeping that omen at bay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was the omen, then? He told me it was not a child, not a whisper, not a thought. It was the collective ill will of men and their ability to destroy. And he would not allow anyone to destroy him, not as they’d destroyed his father and his brother. So he left, and in his travels, Sergio found the same corruption everywhere he went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the more he searched for enlightenment- or solutions, as he called it- the more addicted he became to the whispers. He obsessed over a plan, some mad scheme to set the world right, and he would start by exposing alleged holy men for the liars they were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There can only be a solution once we root out the problem,” he’d said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he could not do it alone, so he tracked his brother’s steps, always out of sight. If Andrés was a ghost, Sergio was the breeze that followed, unseen, unheard. Sergio had been at our heels since he was eighteen, long before our arrival in Palermo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He saw that Andrés was alive, perhaps even well. Why not make himself known then? Sergio told me he was afraid. Andrés was the memory he’d spent so long chasing, and he’d calculated a hundred ways to catch and lose it again. He was afraid because he loved him. And he did not dismiss the possibility of Andrés resenting, even hating him, should they meet again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How could he hate you, I’d said, when he’d sold his very soul for you? Sergio said it was a child’s choice, and any sane man would be within his right to regret it. He believed himself the reason for Andrés’ banishment and all that followed. I told him he was wrong-- of Andrés’ regrets, saving him was not on the list.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Sergio arrived in Toledo, for the sole purpose of perusing the library of Santa Catalina, the college for young women. There, he found a position as professor of arithmetic, and it was also there that he met the headmistress, Raquel Murillo. Although he refused to dwell on her, I knew already why he’d stayed in Toledo for so long. Had the situation been different, Andrés would have been most pleased.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The </span>
  <em>
    <span>plague</span>
  </em>
  <span> struck not soon after, and it was Murillo’s insistence that finally forced Sergio to write his brother. His plan worked, and here we were, all reunited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was well past midnight by the time Sergio had finished speaking, and I knew it was time for me to return to Andrés, lest he and you disappear into the night. I had too much to relay, and too little time to preen my memory. But before I left the professor, I had one more thing to ask:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your father, did he ever speak of him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio pushed his glasses back up. “Never.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I suspected as much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio had booked two rooms at the inn, one for Andrés, and one for his partner, equally furnished and spaced. As expected, the alchemist’s bed was empty. I found you arguing with Andrés in his room, your luggage strewn about the floor, the two of you pushing and prodding at a kerosene lamp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evidently, neither of you intended to sleep. I slipped in, unnoticed, in time to hear you cry, “Your brother? Since when did you have a brother!?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough,” he said, “it’s none of your concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but I think it is. How do I know this isn’t some elaborate setup- you planning on cheating me out of my cut with this ‘brother’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoved a finger into your chest, a flash of genuine rage in his eyes. “What are you insinuating? You of all people should vouch for my character.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, because it’s always been about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> hasn’t it, Andrés?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martín-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s never been a problem for me. But it’s not about your character, it’s about mine- I thought I was your partner. Do you not trust me, or am I just some tramp you picked up in Palermo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your nose was bumping his, your face so close you could kiss if you wished, or perhaps bite. “Some little experiment? I hate taking shit from bastards. You of all people should know that. I’m not one of your fucking corpses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a final shove, your shoulder pushed him aside, and you were out the doorway. Andrés cursed after you, too low for me to hear. Then he picked up the flask on the table and dashed it against the wall across, glowering as whiskey scattered over the carpet floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this was the compensation he offered,” Andrés mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sergio will keep his word. Don’t worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprised by my voice, Andrés looked behind, then downwards. He grinned, resigned and cold. “Tatiana, where were you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should be the one asking the questions,” I said, perching myself at the foot of his bed, “what were you fighting about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés sat by my side, that grin giving way to something more accurate, a grim frown. “Sergio- I told him I had a brother, and he wanted to know more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not tell him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ruffled the back of my fur. “Are you hungry? There are some biscuits on the table-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t trust him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw clenched, but I knew he wouldn’t speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not, Andrés?” I tried to be gentle, though it made no difference. “He’s not in any position to judge what happened back then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You have nothing to be ashamed of, </span>
  </em>
  <span>I almost said, but it was hard to challenge Andrés’ mind, especially after he’d decided what to believe of himself. He considered himself a separate entity from the little boy Sergio knew, and his brother’s prodigal return threatened to break that divide down. It had been too long, and he refused to acknowledge the boy he’d once been. He could not bring himself to, not after he’d killed that boy with his own hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I think, a part of him believed you would be ashamed of that boy as well. He wished for you to remember him as he was, the fearless necromancer with an artist’s fancy, as bold as he was cruel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t wish to speak about this anymore,” was all Andrés said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I narrowed my eyes at him, but I relented. “Fine. I have more important things to tell you anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I recounted everything I learned from Sergio, and Andrés listened without remark. He made no nod or noise, no sign at all of having heard my words. When I finished, he shut his eyes, no doubt mulling over what to do, every bit as distraught as I’d been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was hard to tell. His face was tranquil, as if these new developments didn’t bother him at all. Then he spoke, deathly calm:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take the case. Come morning, tell Sergio I’ll meet him at the school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’ll be honest, Martín- when I first laid eyes on Santa Catalina, I felt a pang of jealousy, a sort of envy I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old and watching a mother kiss her child on a cheek. That girl had a ribbon in her braid, so I went home and asked Uncle for a ribbon as well because I didn’t dare ask him for a kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Andrés tied a ribbon around my neck, usually silk red, finer than even the fabric of a dress. And I was rather used to strangers cooing over what a pretty thing I was- that is, until I scared them away with my mouth. So you see, I’d become used to feline arrogance over the years. But on occasion, I’d remember that I was once human too, and that no matter how pretty my coat was, no matter how much Andrés groomed my fur, no matter how many children fawned over me, I would never be human again. I would never taste with a human’s tongue or walk with a human’s feet, and everything I’d taken for granted as a child, I would never regain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And those wretched thoughts rushed back to me the moment Murillo’s school came into view. It couldn’t compare with the church of our childhood, but it was a marvel of architecture nonetheless. Behind high iron gates, ivy looped along pillars of marble and plaques of gold. The statue of Santa Catalina herself stood in the courtyard, chiseled to perfection, her stone lashes as full as any woman of flesh and blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wonder,” Andrés told me as we passed the gate, and onto the steps cascading towards the front doors, “is this a cathedral or a church?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The inside was no less impressive. My eyes wandered from high windows to sculpted ceilings, dazzled by medieval tapestries and portraits of benefactors from years past. It was a cloudy day, grey skies warning of a storm to come, but I imagine that in summer and spring, fresh sunlight would fill the great halls with white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a waste of money,” I said to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No such establishment existed when I was a girl. And even if it did, Uncle would never have paid such expenses for me. I would never touch the books of Santa Catalina’s library, never be a part of the murals on its walls, never toss and turn in its dorms, and I would never do it with the knowledge that the act of being here was enough to seal my fate. How many doors were open to its students? How many young women would leave this school never having to worry about finding a husband? What lessons would forever live in their heads? They could be anything. They were free, fortunate, wise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the rest of us could only ever look on in envy while we dreamed of a different life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, the school was not a waste of money. It was worth every coin that came its way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you sour today, gatita?” Andrés said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call me that,” I mumbled, hoisting the rest of myself onto his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whistled, gaze flitting about the corridors, as if expecting a response. When he received none, Andrés walked on, perhaps suspicious of the empty halls. Sergio had instructed us to meet him in the library, and when Andrés pushed the double doors open, I flinched at the creak of their hinges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The curtains were drawn shut, enclosing us in a cold darkness not unlike the catacombs I remember so well. I sensed dread here, something unwanted creeping about the shadows. Whatever light colored the rest of Santa Catalina could not be found here, as if this was the prison that hid her skeletons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés sauntered past busts of headmasters, stopping to inspect the bookshelves, piled four storeys high, all encompassed by a dome of- ironically- painted cherubs. He followed the glow of flickering flames in the distance, up a spiral of narrow stairs, and over a persian carpet. When we reached the fireplace, he approached an armchair, but the man who greeted us was not Sergio. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re late,” you said to us, the edge of an angry smirk on your lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés returned that false smile. “I thought you lost interest in this case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? And let you take my cut. No, I don’t think so.” You placed your hands on your hips. “I don’t care what your brother wants- if he pays up, I won’t ask anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And because you couldn’t resist needling him the way he’d needled you the night before, you added, “That’s what you want, right, Andrés? My mouth shut?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés allowed me to climb down his arm, and as he bent to place me upon the floor, said, “Say what you will. I- for one- don’t have time to squabble with your crude humors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. I’ll do what you say, like a good </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet</span>
  </em>
  <span> lackey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With mock reverence, you bowed. Andrés tensed, but laughed nonetheless, sharp and cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So long as you know your place,” he said between harsh chuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’d never forget.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you had anything more to say to him, your words were cut off by Sergio’s arrival. He appeared with a stack of old journals in his arms. The leather book, I couldn’t see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés,” he said, unable to control his smile, “you came.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I do need the money.” Andrés grinned, biting the crook of his bottom lip. “I lead an expensive lifestyle. It’s nothing personal, professor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I poked Andrés in the leg. Would it kill you to call him by his name? I wanted to say, but knowing Andrés and his theatrics, he would have quite seriously said “yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even so, Sergio swallowed his disappointment and invited the two of you to sit down. He wasted no time in explaining the rest, and while Andrés skimmed over the observations in his journals, you listened to Sergio recount what had befallen the school. Initially, the headmistress thought one of her students had caught a chill, and one bug led to another until the students were all taking ill. It had happened before, and it was nothing that proper rest and remedies could not fix.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until her young daughter, a little Paula, made a disturbing discovery. Murillo usually kept her child away from the other students, but Paula had the naughty habit of sneaking into the courtyard, where sometimes the first year girls would play with her. Seeing as the girls were sick, the courtyard should have been empty. But Murillo witnessed those very same young women standing in a circle around the statue of Santa Catalina. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were pale, according to Sergio, completely bloodless, and their eyes were a uniform black. They invited Paula to stand with them, and to Murillo’s horror, made to tear the girl limb from limb. One had even tried to sink her teeth into the child’s jugular. They had no weapons, only their teeth and nails, and disturbingly, a thirst for flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It took Raquel some time to recover from the incident,” Sergio said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raquel?” I wiggled my tail at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coughing, Sergio corrected himself- “the headmistress, Murillo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps in another lifetime, Andrés would have clapped him on the back and laughed, eager to make his brother blush. But as Andrés looked from the pages to the fire then, he had no inclination to make merry, not when his mind was fighting to make a decision, a choice that he hadn’t had to make since he was twelve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was you, Martín, who said, “Must have been quite the shock to her, eh? How are her nerves?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her nerves are fine.” Sergio pointed at his shoulder, a hint of angry fear in his voice. “When she saved her daughter, the girls injured her. They almost tore her shoulder to shreds.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what happened to the girls?” you asked, after a pause to soak that information in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re in the chapel. All of them- the ‘ill’ ones- are there, confined. It’s the only place that keeps them in check.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés slammed the last journal shut. He whistled again. “Oh, professor, you have quite the powerful guest on your hands! A whole school of women- I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked to you, expecting agreement. You nodded Sergio’s way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should have written sooner,” you told him, “why didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Sisters here, they insisted on using their methods first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did it work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio shoved his spectacles upwards. “They made it worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snorted. “Go figure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés, do you have a solution?” Sergio kept his gaze trained on his brother, but Andrés only had eyes for the fire. “Please, you’re the only one-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little Paula,” Andrés mused, “they needed her to be their lamb, a virgin sacrifice of the highest caliber. But your headmistress put a stop to that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I don’t think your pupils are running some kind of cult here,” you added, “something’s got a hold of them, something- how do I put it- unholy, very unholy. But these things don’t pop out of nowhere, professor. You breed them. One of your students let them in- there’s always a source.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You broke it down quite flatly for Sergio, as if you were speaking of the chemicals in your study instead of the very lives of his students. And judging from the look on his face, you endeared yourself to him quite well- he needed speed and calculation above all else. Empathy and emotion, it seemed, only made Catalina’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>guest</span>
  </em>
  <span> stronger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we find the source. I know that. What do you propose we do?” Sergio asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés tossed the journal into the fire, and as it burned to ash, said with a grin, “We give them their lamb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You eyed Andrés with some reservation, but I doubt he noticed. He was lost in his own schemes, and there was little one could do to dissuade him from his plans, especially when his brother was involved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where</span>
  <em>
    <span> is</span>
  </em>
  <span> the chapel?” I asked, my fur still on edge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here.” Sergio paced towards what I’d assumed to be a study, and pointed at the door. “This connects directly to the chapel. Follow me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And gravely, he said, “Stay close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You popped your lips, then delivered another mock bow, a hand stretched towards that door of brass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>master,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> you said to Andrés, a particularly nasty bite at the end of each word, “I follow your lead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How considerate,” Andrés drawled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I saw his nostrils flare- briefly- before he regained the necromancer’s arrogant mask. He walked around you, intentionally making sure not to bump shoulders, perhaps as some spiteful reaction to the night before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder, Martín, if you would have been so snide if you knew what was to come. Or would you have been crueler? Would you have grabbed him by the nape of his neck and run from Santa Catalina? Never to look back at Sergio or Toledo? Knowing you, perhaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Regardless, you followed Andrés into the dark, him at Sergio’s heels. And as I entered the chapel, I heard Sergio shut the door from behind. When the shadows engulfed us, I heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>them.</span>
  </em>
  <span> For the first time in decades, I heard those laughing whispers in the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And like sirens, they were again dragging us into the sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a woman waiting inside, her left arm in a tight sling and her gold hair pulled into a gold bun, the rest of her clad in a black dress. I knew who she was before Sergio introduced her. Quiet dignity and a fiery gaze.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Ah, hermanito, I see what kept you in Toledo! </span>
  </em>
  <span>is what I imagine Andrés should have said. Then Raquel Murillo would have glared and returned his quip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as with all these moments, Martín, that was not to pass in this lifetime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Andrés bent to offer the slightest of bows. He would have kissed her hand, but the look in Murillo’s eyes told me she would have murdered him if he tried. You, however, had no such sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what does your demon want?” you asked, with barely a greeting, “a vessel? A bride? Not exactly a good thing to tell the parents, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My job is to take care of my students,” she told you, without missing a beat, “your job is to fix my problem. Do not concern yourselves with anything else. Are we clear, Señor Berrote?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You had little to respond with. I would have laughed at you, if I wasn’t so distracted by what had befallen the chapel. Tapestries hung off-kilter from the walls, torn to shreds. Paint was peeling from the murals, as if fingers had tried to scratch it off, and the red stained glass washed it all with a cast of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are the girls?” Andrés said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that, Murillo called for “Mercedes” and her assistant came to her side. They exchanged whispers. Then Murillo answered: “Professor Marquina speaks highly of you, Señor de Fonollosa. But I’m not so sure- what will you do when you see our students?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés shrugged. “Oh, a little inspection here and there- I have some questions for them. For instance, are they virgins?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As expected, Mercedes shot him a look of disgust. “I beg your pardon?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a basic question.” Andrés paced around the headmistress, waiting for a reaction. “Why would something like this plague a school such as yours, and not a whorehouse down the street? Is there any chance that your girls have- how should I phrase this- slept with a devil? With anyone holding such inclinations?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you ask something useful, or are you going to continue wasting my time?” Murillo said, with a pointed glare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take that as a no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there’s been a scandal, I suggest you tell us,” you remarked, “no use in hiding it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio interjected then: “We’re not hiding anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let’s assume the majority are virgins.” Andrés ran his gaze over the chapel’s damage. “Untainted, young. Innocent. But here is the paradox, headmistress- adolescents are rarely innocent. They can be conniving, cruel, angry- and they lack the restraint that comes with age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re saying my students brought this upon themselves?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m suggesting it.” He held up a finger. “And it only takes one to do so. Now the question is who, and why. Are your students happy- generally speaking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes huffed. “Why are you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, he actually has a point this time,” Murillo said, much to my- and Andrés’- surprise. “But unfortunately, I can’t answer. Mercedes, you’re in charge of their quarters. What do you believe?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The girls have always gotten along. But they’re children- there’s the occasional squabble. But to be unhappy enough to cause this? Señor, why would you even think that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés smiled, a sure sign that he knew she was wrong. He looked to Sergio. “Professor, what do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no such thing as a happy student,” Sergio said, “but there is a girl in my class- Alison Parker- who had it harder than the rest of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on,” you ordered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her father is English,” Murillo recounted, “Her mother was an alumni of Santa Catalina. Alison’s grades have always been average, and her behavior, fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The other students would taunt her.” Sergio placed a hand beneath his jaw, thumb on his chin as he processed what he could recall. “They would play tricks on her, say things about her, no matter how many times I tried to stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever spoken to her?” Andrés asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio shook his head. “Twice, I tried. Once, she had been crying in my classroom. I think her dorm mates had snipped off her hair while she slept. And again in her second year. She had stayed over for the winter holiday because her father had business to care for. But she refused to talk to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He mentioned her case to me, I remember,” Murillo said, “but when I asked to speak with her, the girl never came in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I chose to speak then, and I suspect it gave the two women quite the shock. “So a girl in the cruelest transition between childhood and adulthood, estranged from her parents, and mocked for her differences. Afraid to say anything for fear of more retribution. Singled out as a silent victim, while her school did nothing-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked at Sergio. “Because the professor who tried was ignored.” Then at Murillo. “The headmistress was never informed, and-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I tilted my head at Mercedes, who’d had nothing to offer to Sergio’s words. “The one who should have helped her didn’t notice. Is it any wonder then that she would welcome the first person who offered?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés was silent. I suspected he was confirming his theories, but perhaps deeper still, he was hit with a sense of deja vu. This was how the shadows had found him in the first place, for they’d found a boy with no one and nothing. And he grabbed the first hand that reached back for him, despite knowing that it meant to pull down, not up, not a care in the world for consequence. Because back then, what else could he do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” you said, snapping your fingers, “so this girl attracted spirits, demons, what-have-yous, already lurking about. And because they offered to make everyone else suffer, she let them in. Simple as that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it seemed that Murillo and her assistant were still transfixed by my voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The cat talks,” Murillo said, gaping, “Sergio, you might have mentioned that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh yes, I could speak. And I remember thinking then, that perhaps Santa Catalina deserved this plague. But for Sergio’s sake, I said no more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need to see Alison Parker,” Andrés said. And when the women demanded to know why, he replied, “It’s the only way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you hear them here, the shadows?” I asked Sergio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then I suppose, Andrés could as well. And they were telling him what to do. He had followed Murillo into the cellar beneath our feet, her assistant lighting the way with a candlestick. When you disappeared after them, Sergio scooped me up and followed suit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the way down, he explained that the cellar was used for storing coal and other things the school no longer needed. It explained the amount of ash in the air, and the soot no doubt staining your shoes. It was rather cramped, and all of you had to duck your heads to fit in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this is how you discipline your students?” I heard you comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, Murillo ignored you, but Sergio said, “It was my idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what an idea. He’d bound the students in pairs, back-to-back with rope looped around their wrists, and left them writhing inside caskets open to the musty air. Do you remember what it smelled like, Martín? Vomit and sweat, and a twinge of dry copper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their uniforms were covered in soot, torn at the edges, and stained with ink- no- blood. Upon closer inspection, I could see their torn nails, peeling off fingers caked in black. To keep them from biting through their binds, Sergio and the headmistress had gagged their mouths with strips of cloth. But judging from the odor of rotten food, they still had to feed these poor things on occasion. The bodies remained, no matter how disarrayed their souls were.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever had contacted Alison Parker certainly kept its promise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give Martín the candle,” Andrés said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes frowned. “Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snatched the candle from her, a careless “thank you” on the lips. She hardly had time to protest before Murillo stopped in front of Alison’s casket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now what?” she asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and the others,” he muttered, “step out. Lock the doors. Tatiana will call you when we’re done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tatiana-</span>
  <em>
    <span> the cat?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés chuckled. Then he knelt before the casket, gazing into the shadows cast over Alison’s head, the girl’s eyes hidden by her frenzied hair, her spine arching against her classmate’s back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll stay,” Sergio said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without looking back at him, Andrés answered, “I’m not in the mood for jokes, professor- if you don’t follow your headmistress out, our deal’s off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés-”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio gulped back his response. Then one by one, the others left, until only the three of us remained. When I heard the sound of a locking bolt, Andrés dipped into the casket for Alison’s gag. As soon as he pried it out, her teeth lunged for his hand, and he pulled away by a fraction enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tossed the cloth at you and said, “When I’m done, what can you preserve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t look like there’s much need.” You held the candle closer. “Most are alive, far as I can see. So what is it- demon, or the departed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something worse. No matter. I’ve dealt with these things before. I’ll need you to watch her. Make sure she doesn’t bite my hand off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, master. You command, and I obey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Martín.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You smirked lightly at him, and in the candlelight, it was hard to tell if you meant it to be menacing or encouraging. To Andrés, I suppose, it was both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was rare that we encountered a situation where you stood on the side lines. I know you hated it, that feeling of uselessness. But this was such a case. His necromancy was not required, but another expertise was. Except this time, there was no spirit to speak to. As Andrés said, he would need to make contact with something much worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugged off his coat, and despite your attempts to give him the cold shoulder, you caught it before it hit the floor. He rolled up his sleeves, to the elbow of both limbs, and reached behind his belt for the thin dagger that had accompanied him over the years. He sharpened it every now and then, so it had yet to dull or discolor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés shut his eyes, and tilting his head upwards, said between his grin, “Hello there. You’ve pulled off quite the heist, my friend. I’m impressed, but alas- all good things must come to an end.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could you hear </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span> then, Martín? I saw the slightest of shudders in your frame, an inkling of fear in your eyes. You heard the voices, and because you did not know what they were, you felt disoriented, unbalanced, lost. And for a man like you, that was worse than any fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard them too, flickering whispers inside my head, my name repeated upon their tongues. I sunk my claws into Alison’s casket, desperate to anchor myself. It was hard, then, to keep myself afloat as memory and nightmare blended before my eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I saw the catacombs and my corpse at its wake, the funeral mass humming within my veins. I had to blink it away, yowling to keep the shadows at bay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was worse for you. Oh, you tried to hide it- the terror, the alarm screeching behind your ribs. Your heart didn’t rattle your chest as mine did. It sat still, a heavy weight that threatened to thrust the rest of you down. And you knew then, that if you fell, there would be no getting back up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you stood, a pile of stone breaths while your leaden heart sunk. It was all you could do. But you felt them- as I did- the phantom hands climbing up your spine, ice against the sweat soaking your back. Then for you, it went black.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You held smoke in your hands, wisps of dust in the dark, for a murmur had whispered the candle’s flame away. You saw nothing, save the fading fog. You could hear, feel, smell- but all else was lost. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I, however, could still see, with or without the candle’s light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were slithering around you, tendrils of shadow coiling around your skin like ink. That was what choked your voice back. The shadows swirled and swiveled, until I could see the shape of hands, slender, pale. Too perfect to be human. Hand over hand, connecting to wrists shackled in soot. I saw them grope your jaw, stroke your chest, pry at the edge of your open eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were terrified, not because you feared what they would do, but because you didn’t know what they would do. You hated the unknown, perhaps as much as Andrés embraced it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why were the shadows calling for you then? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hard to answer for such things, but this is what I believe-- when they found Andrés all those years ago, they sank their teeth into a burning soul. They tore and tore, ground it to pieces, and continued to lick for more. But you? It was the same taste of fire, but again complete, whole, and still so deliciously damned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they never had the chance to ask if you would welcome them in. Because you heard Andrés’ voice, saying in calm Latin:</span>
  <em>
    <span> “Leave him be.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They obeyed. And in the moment, you were too frozen to ask why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is what Andrés did in the dark. I doubt he could see as well as me, but instinct had honed him to the feeling of his skin against the knife. He held the blade to his arm, and quickly, raked it across his flesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I am sure suffering virgins are nectar to you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Andrés said,</span>
  <em>
    <span> “but this is the blood of a man who has suffered more. It is worth more than the measly spirits here.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He pressed the dagger to his arm again. Once more, he dragged it into skin. Then again. I counted ten, twelve incisions, digging deeper as he went. He made deep cuts, slicing as far as the blade’s curve would allow. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This is business,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he muttered, holding his mangled arm over Alison’s screeching mouth, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“nothing more, and nothing less.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood fell over her face in dark spots, and she cried out, as if burned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There, there,” he said, pressing a kiss to her brow, “such a naughty child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“So feed.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The dagger switched hands, and with that red-smeared arm, he ran the blade across his other limb.</span>
  <em>
    <span> “I will buy if you will give. Here is the price I name.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>As he spoke, he moved the knife, as if scribbling pencil on paper, and not steel over skin. And in truth, Martín, I had never seen Andrés make so many cuts, not since that night in his father’s cellar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He splashed his blood across Alison’s cheeks, making sure to drip crimson over her nose and the tip of her lips. Then, standing back, he held his arms open, as if about to catch some dancing lover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did you feel it, Martín? The hands around you fell apart, again tendrils that melted away. I watched them slink from you, just as they fell away from each screaming casket. They rushed towards Andrés, ropes of black that swirled into a mass of whispering shades.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when it looked as if that mass would consume him, it shrunk into a swirl of ink, almost the shape of a woman when it finally landed in his arms. He stepped away, waltzing as he held a bloodied palm to the tendrils coiling about his wrist. His lips nearly brushed the illusion of a head. And when the kiss of death had passed, those shadows too faded into the dark, their limbs weaving into his bleeding wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the last shadow disappeared into his slit arms, the whispers stopped. And only then did I notice that the girls had stopped screaming. Alison Parker gasped for breath, coughing and gagging against the taste of blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And whatever trance had a hold of you broke apart when the light returned. The smoke dropped, pinching the candle wick back into a flame. I blinked, distracted by the flickering fire. You hissed, a bit of wax having melted onto your palm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What-” you mumbled. Then you saw Andrés, half leaning over the casket, his forearms covered with red rivulets, blood outpouring like washed paint.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I remembered what I had to do. Berating myself, I turned on my paws. I don’t know how you reacted to Andrés because by then, I had reached the bolted door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I fetched the others, as Andrés had promised. When Murillo’s party arrived, you were busy untying the students, and the look on your face made it appear as if nothing had happened at all. The girls were still pallid, far from cleanly, but as they sat up, clinging to each other and wiping away leftover tears, I could see a bit of color return to those cheeks. They were alive, released.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Girls!” Mercedes cried, and the ones strong enough to move dived into her embrace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Problem solved,” you said to the headmistress, “I think you owe us a thank-you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It,” Murillo replied, still wary as she inspected her charges, “appears so. But what guarantee do I have that this won’t happen again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It won’t.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I turned to that new voice. Alison sat, hugging her knees by her casket, shivering as she said again, “It won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio knelt by her first, and he appeared quite taken aback when she grabbed his hand and buried her face in his chest. As she cried, he- rather awkwardly, if you ask me- attempted to pat her stained hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not your fault,” I heard him mutter, “it’s over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés,” you said, looking to the back with a worried frown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was when I noticed him, resting against the farthest wall, arms crossed and hidden behind his sleeves. But I glimpsed the cloth binding his cuts, remnants of the gags you’d help pull out. And if not for that, he appeared perfectly fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Likely alarmed by your tone, he made himself known. Andrés rushed to the casket you were hovering over. He gulped, silent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio squinted your way. “What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hopped over, boosting myself over the casket to see. Behind me, I heard Murillo and her assistant approach. There was a lone girl lying within, perhaps no older than fifteen. She was completely still, eyes glassy, locked in a stare with nothing. I had seen enough to know-- she was dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercedes stepped back first, covering her mouth in disbelief. Murillo, by contrast, was much calmer, but she did not take this lightly. And it wasn’t Andrés she addressed next, but Sergio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You told me they would all be saved,” she stated. “You said they would be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her words were flat, but it wasn’t hard to see the betrayal in her gaze and the hurt in her frame. Grief and guilt were not so different, and Murillo was now suffering from both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For his part, Sergio did not know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to Andrés, the girl had already died, perhaps an hour or more before our arrival. You attributed it to shock, malnourishment, and trauma to the head. Sergio had attested that one of the students had tried to dash her skull against the wall, and that was what compelled Murillo to order them bound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercedes, write to Angel,” the headmistress said once we’d left the chapel behind. “Tell him to arrange her death rites. Everything else, leave to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raquel-” Sergio made to say, but she dismissed him with a single look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the headmistress disappeared into her office, Andrés looked to his brother and said, with a deliberate smirk, “Do you still plan to pay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For that remark, Mercedes smacked him across the cheek. He laughed, though you were quite ready to step in. I believe you would have if Sergio hadn’t placed himself between you and the assistant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés,” he said, for once shocked by his brother’s cold words, “a child is dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her death has nothing to do with our deal. You’re a teacher- you ought to know how tender a maiden’s skull is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio said nothing. He stared at Andrés as if he was a stranger. He knew then, that Andrés had always been a stranger, every bit as cruel and wicked as the others had said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Andrés added, rubbing his thumb and index together, “I could bring her back to the land of the living- for an extra price.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you burn in hell,” Mercedes spat at him. Then she turned on her heels and entered Murillo’s study, the door slamming shut behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, aren’t you going to comfort your lady love?” you said, in some callous attempt to drive Sergio away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergio clenched his fists, but his anger remained unseen. “Let’s talk business then. I’ll pay in full, tonight at the inn. What happened… was unfortunate, but you held your end of the bargain. I’ll hold mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clapped. “Great! Then we’ll be off now-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I still need your help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pretended not to hear, but your footsteps slowed down the corridor. I pretended to follow you, and lingered by the wall. Andrés, however, stayed to hear his brother out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alison Parker caused this. I don’t blame her, but this is fact,” Sergio said, “by all accounts, the outside world will believe her a murderer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If that doesn’t sit right with you,” Andrés told him, “lie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They all heard what you said. She summoned those demons. At Santa Catalina, I’m afraid she’ll face worse punishment than expulsion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like I said. Lie.” Andrés held out his arms, flashing another cold grin. “The necromancer paid you a lovely visit today. And you know what his reputation is- you’ve always known.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not asking you to take the blame-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what else can I do?” Andrés dropped his arms, and scoffing, replaced his hat. He adjusted the buttons of his coat and once more let his gaze fall on Sergio. “You want me to bring that child back to life. Trust me, professor, that would be a fate worse than death for her. Take the easy way out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked in the direction you had walked off. And softly, he said, “You have quite the life here. Students who respect you. A woman who loves you. Almost every book on Earth. Stay, professor- you’d be a fool to give this up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he turned, Sergio grabbed him by the wrist. I saw Andrés wince, but he was quick to cover it with a sideways smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay with me. Andrés, my whole life- I’ve spent it searching for you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And do you like what you found? I’m not like you, professor. Morals, compassion, these things evade me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away, leaving Sergio gripping at thin air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s a spot in hell reserved especially for me,” Andrés said with- I believe- faux pride, “and I’m gladly running towards it. Unfortunately, it’s unsuited for someone as meek as yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés, listen-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> listen.” Andrés dusted his hands, as if disgusted with his brother’s touch, and the gesture was not lost on Sergio. “I detest copycats with every fiber of my being. The shadows belong to me. You have no claim to them, and from today onward, I want you to leave them alone. If you disobey, I’ll be sure to kill you myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Sergio could respond, Andrés tipped his hat- farewell. And when he rounded the corridor, I resumed my place by his feet. Neither of us dared look back at Sergio, but I could feel his stare and the sting of unshed tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside Santa Catalina, Andrés broke down in more ways than one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You were waiting by the gate when we descended the school’s great marble steps. To my irritation, it was raining- though, thankfully, each drop was clear of blood. Andrés scooped me into his coat, distant thunder booming overhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We forgot the umbrella today,” he said, chuckling, though his eyes were dimmed by weariness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When we joined you, you were already drenched in water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll catch a chill that way,” Andrés told you, “or did you forget how easily you fall ill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evidently, you were not in the mood for jokes. “I heard what he said to you. He wants you to take the fall for Alison Parker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés walked on, past the gate, his shoes leaving ripples in puddles along the stone road. “He didn’t ask me to do anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you offered? That's what you’re saying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I felt Andrés sway, each step less balanced than the last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sneered at you. “And what if I did? What would it matter to you? I thought you knew your place as my silent servant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stepped in sync beside him, fists balled, and I suppose it took every nerve of willpower not to punch him then and there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I do. But clearly, your </span>
  <em>
    <span>brother</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t. Who does that son of a bitch think he is? And you’re just going to let him say whatever he wants about you, after all the shit we went through down there? What happened to that reputation you fucking love so much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I smelled blood. But the rain was clear. Andrés’ arms were wet. Open iron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll pay us. Leave it alone, Martín.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That an order?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Andrés snapped, heaving as he stepped forward, “it’s a fucking order! Shut up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His outburst stunned me, but it only incensed you further. The more distance he gained from you, the more determined you were to close that gap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where was this anger back there huh!?” you demanded, “what do you owe that son of a bitch? Stop fucking around!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scent of blood was unbearable. I poked my head out of Andrés’ coat, eager for air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop asking,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Andrés-” I tried to say, but you cut me off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what your problem is, Andrés? You’re a coward! You always run away when it counts, you never see things for what they are- so I’ll tell you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés staggered, and I tumbled out of his coat. I was quick to land on my feet, but Andrés fell onto his knees, slamming into a puddle on the ground. The hat rolled off. And within seconds, the water turned pink. His hands were slick with red, the makeshift binds having come apart around his arms. The rags fell by his wrists, soaked in crimson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I cried his name, and in my memory, you did as well, your rage forgotten as soon as you saw him fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your knees landed beside him, in time to stop him from fully hitting the ground. When you attempted to prop him up, Andrés held a hand to his mouth. His throat heaved. Then blood seeped between the cracks of his trembling fingers. He curled in on himself, unable to stop his body from burrowing itself in your embrace as he hacked red out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His palm fell away, and writhing, he could only gag, choking on the blood in his throat as we screamed his name. He coughed it out in heaps, splashes of dark red that stained your sleeves like wine. And I watched, rooted to where I stood, too horrified to look away from his wet retching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>~~o~~</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was dripping from head to tail by the time we returned to our room. Don’t deny it, Martín- you forgot about me in the rain. In your panic, you lifted Andrés into your arms, and half dragging, half carrying his weight, you rushed- stumbling- back to the inn. And I ran after you, ordering you to hurry with Naranjita’s hisses. But there was no need to tell you; I’d never seen you move so quickly before, so uneasily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You thrust his coat upon the floor, spatters of blood sprinkling wood. You placed him on the bed, no care for the covers, then removed his shoes and wiped him dry, or as dry as you could, being so wet yourself. But you’d likely forgotten that you were supposed to be cold by then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fire,” I urged you, “put on a fire, Martín!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And again, without acknowledging me, you obeyed. Once the hearth burned, you had forgotten me entirely. I was reminded of the day we found you in Palermo-- it was awfully similar. Except this time, you were tending Andrés, exceedingly- painfully- tender with every ministration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While you cleaned his wounds, I looked upon Andrés’ face. I had grown used to his visage over time, so much so that every small change was lost on me. I don’t remember when his jaw had gone from a boy’s to a man’s, when the creases around his eyes appeared, when the first strands of grey streaked through his hair. But watching him then, I saw him the way you saw him in the moment-- ashen, cold, and withered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’d never really seen him quite so lifeless, have you? Around you, he had always been animated. You once told him he walked as if he was dancing, the world a fingertip away. He was the flame to your moth, but seeing him so weak made you wonder if perhaps it had been the other way around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn’t have to say a word. I understood from the storm in your eyes. If you could take his pain upon yourself, fill his cuts with your blood, you would have without a second thought. But you had no such power, so you stitched him together instead, glaring at the blood that continued to slip out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you finished bandaging him, I touched the gauze on his wrist. You’d bound his forearms in white, and when I looked up, you were busy pressing a wet cloth to his head. His skin was hot. Andrés had always been cool to the touch, and I admit, it was the first time in- I think- decades since he’d been ridden with fever. Your hands were stained with muddy brown, his blood having made its way up your wrists and into your once-crisp shirt. But just as you’d forgotten me, you forgot yourself as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then you swiped the cloth across your own face. With a sigh, you set it down, and leaning onto the edge of that bed, lifted Andrés’ hand, as lightly as you could.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He never let me look at the cuts,” you told me, tracing your fingers down his bandaged arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I think that was the first time you noticed the sheer amount of scars he had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t let me either,” I said, coming to sit at the end of the bed. “He thinks it’s undignified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You snorted. “These are all from… his work? How long has he been doing this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nodded, crawling over to nudge Andrés in the chin, relieved by the smooth pattern of his breath. He’d frightened me, but I was convinced he would live, perhaps because I wanted to believe it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My tail swished. “A long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The scars, he did all this to himself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked away, and you had your answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I let him know everything,” you said. You smiled. And like Andrés’, it didn’t reach your eyes. “Every last detail. But I don’t know- I never felt like I had the right to ask him. Guess I-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your tongue switched in the last second, whatever word on its tip flicking to, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>respected. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Him too much to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you think he’d cast you out if you overstepped yourself?” I said, more a quip than anything else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shrugged, eyeing me with your piercing blue. “Don’t know. I’m used to leaving things behind, and I’m used to being left behind- but him…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I didn’t want to part with him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you meant to say. It seemed that I had become quite good at reading you as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Andrés abandons you,” I told you truthfully, “it’s because he’s abandoned himself. Can’t you tell, Martín?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andrés would later ask you the same thing- “</span>
  <em>
    <span>you think I don’t love you, Martín?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> But I’m afraid neither of you were quite ready to say it. It had been too late, or perhaps too early.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t lecture me, Tatiana,” you said, breath mingling with a sigh. Then, your gaze shifted back to Andrés’ face, his features weathered with pain, but it must have pained you more to sit helpless beside. “Maybe it’s not the right word, but I’ve always been ‘jealous’ of him. Always thought that if there was one thing in this world that was too good for me, it was him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clicked your fingers, a dull snap sounding out. “He came into my life like that. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him leaving the same way. Then little brother came along-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You chuckled, and for the first time, I noticed how much it sounded like Andrés’ laugh. “And you know what I hate the most? The fact that I wouldn’t even blame him if he left, if he ended our partnership here and now. I think, after a while, I’d actually be happy for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I settled on the pillow, lightly pressing myself against the top of Andrés’ shoulder. “Why’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because if Matteo walked through that door right fucking now and asked me to leave, I might do it. I might just do it. Follow him back to Palermo and leave all this behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand brushed the tip of his head, careful to touch as little of him as you dared. “But Sergio Marquina walked through instead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn’t have to say anymore. I knew then, that you’d wished it had been your apprentice instead. And perhaps that most wicked part of you even wanted Sergio to be the thankless backstabber you’d suspected he was, if only to soothe your own grief. And still, you couldn’t stand the thought of anyone laying a hand on Andrés, even if that hand could keep him by your side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I didn’t know how much time he had left, not after what happened today. So I curled myself by his pillow. And I told you everything, each word slipping out before I even thought of changing my mind:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re not a religious man, Martín. I always knew as much, just by looking at you. But you’re not uncultured-- Andrés would never have been with you otherwise. Then do you know the requiem hymn? The lyrics to the funeral mass?”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>~~o~~</b>
</p><p>
  <span>And that brings us back here, me curled by Andrés’ pillow, your palm upon my head.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading, and fingers crossed that the next chapter will be the last one! As always, comments&amp;kudos are more than welcome (and they really helped me decide how to write the rest of this!).</p><p>Next time (FINAL time), everything wraps up, including all the danging subplots in this chapter, and (spoiler) things somehow manage to get even worse for Andrés. </p><p>Hope you all have a happy new year, and Tatiana will see everyone again in 2021!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can't believe I thought this could be 2 chapters max :'D clearly that didn't happen, but finally- FINALLY- this story's finished. I considered splitting this chapter in two parts, but decided to make it one instead, so I'm very very sorry for how LONG this got. That said, thank you all for the interest in this bizarre story and I hope the ending is worth it.</p><p>Warning: referenced suicide, self-harm, disturbing imagery, some gore, amputation (sort of), no happy ending, melodramatic major character death (if there's anything I failed to tag or warn for, please let me know!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I spoke for a long time, and to your credit, you listened to every word. Then, Martín, I had nothing left to tell you, nothing that you didn’t already know. I wish I could say that was the end of that, but you know as well as I what happened next. The most I can do now is recount it for you. Andrés wouldn’t have minded anymore, I think, if I filled in the gaps of your memory.</p><p>On our last evening in Toledo, Andrés slept well into the night, plagued with the occasional shiver under the coverlets. I expected you to doze away by his side soon enough, especially after my tale. But your fingers continued to run across my head. I suppose that was your way of saying “thank you.” And I did not fail to catch the way you looked at Andrés, a new glint of- for lack of better word- <em> heartbreak </em> in your gaze.</p><p>“Are you thirsty?” you asked me.</p><p>I nodded, for my throat was too dry to do anything besides mewl. You left to tend the fire. Then you returned with a tin of water. As I lapped away at it, you again pressed your hand to Andrés’ brow.</p><p>You frowned. “His fever hasn’t gone down.”</p><p>“You can’t expect it to break so fast,” I said, “he’ll wake when he does.”</p><p>“No.” You narrowed your eyes at the bandages, cursing under your breath. “Something’s wrong.”</p><p>I gulped in the remnants of water while. When I lifted my chin, you were on your way to the door, shrugging into the coat around your shoulders.</p><p>“Martín- where are you-”</p><p>“I’m going to the apothecary- saw one on the way here. Might be a bit of a walk,” you told me, “but his wounds are infected.”</p><p>You didn’t wait to hear my reply. The door locked behind you and I was left holding my tongue. You were as stubborn as Andrés. I knew the state of his injuries had nothing to do with infection, nor did the fever. It was something much worse, and I had a feeling you’d always known-- the demons of Santa Catalina were working their way through his veins. But you’d rather believe what you said. After all, a physical ailment could be cured. </p><p>I could not say the same for a dying soul. </p><p>After you’d gone, I waited by Andrés in your place, eyes drifting to the window every so often. You’d drawn the curtains, but I could still make out the shape of light rain. This time, you remembered to take the umbrella. And the thunder had grown to a distant rumble. Between the sound of rain and fire, I too nodded away, lost in the beats of Andrés’ breaths.</p><p>When I next stirred, it was not to a peaceful scene. I heard the noise first, loud angry cries from beyond our walls. Voices shouting in the rain, too chaotic to form a single phrase. I shook myself awake, and stretched my paws forward.</p><p>Andrés was gone. In disbelief, I touched the pillow. It was still warm, so he couldn’t have left for long. Maybe I should have panicked, but I was more livid than anything else; there was no doubt in my mind that the crowd outside had come for him, and I could not for the life of me understand why Andrés thought he was in any state to face them.</p><p>I ran to the window and pushed the curtains aside. When I managed to peek out the glass, my theory was confirmed. I saw blobs in the dark, illuminated by blocks of light- that I could only assume were lanterns- and in the center of those blobs, I made out two shapes. At first, I’d thought it was you and Andrés.</p><p>I dashed away then, out the open door, and down the halls. Whatever had happened, Andrés had left in a hurry. He would have shut the door otherwise. </p><p>Then, in a blur, I reached the inn’s front doors. And soon, I was hissing at the rain upon my fur. Paw on stone, I made way to the street outside, where the commotion was taking place. And I realized I was wrong-</p><p>It wasn’t the alchemist at all. It was the professor. Sergio was standing between Andrés and another man, a stocky fellow shouting in his face. For his part, Andrés looked at the crowd- twenty or so men and women, I counted- with bored fatigue, again in his black coat. Or perhaps he was on the verge of passing out.</p><p>“Listen to me,” Sergio said, trying to make himself heard in the rain, “what happened was unfortunate, but it was-”</p><p>“What!?” that man cried, “necessary? Who gave you the right to call this bastard here? What are you, a god!?”</p><p>He flung his lantern down, the glass smashing by Sergio’s feet. Then grabbing the professor’s lapels, he tried to shove Sergio aside. But Sergio would not budge, and angrier still, the man raised a fist. </p><p>Andrés spoke then. From behind, he pulled Sergio back. Stepping in front, he said, “Señor Román, is it? You still haven’t told us what you want. And my time is too precious to waste on these shenanigans, understand?”</p><p>“Andrés,” Sergio whispered, but his brother merely smiled, a grave smirk.</p><p>“You son of a bitch,” Román growled, “my daughter is dead because of you.”</p><p>Only then did I notice his puffed eyes. The tears, I’d mistaken for rain.</p><p>“I told you,” Sergio said, “her death was an accident-”</p><p>“Did I ask you!?” Román gestured at the crowd. “You know what we want? Why we’re here!? We want retribution, and we want the both of you out of town!”</p><p>I heard shouts of agreement. </p><p>“I’ll be away soon enough,” Andrés told him, “but retribution, you see, plagued your daughter’s school in the first place. I doubt you can afford to repeat such a feat.”</p><p>Andrés grinned then, nearly a grimace as he looked Román in the eye. “You ought to thank the professor for nipping this problem in the bud before it spread to you. But maybe that wouldn’t be so bad a thing.”</p><p>Román gulped. Then he snarled, <em> “I’ll kill you!” </em></p><p>There was a shout in front of me. I saw Román whip his arm across the necromancer’s face. Andrés fell back, landing on his side with a new line of blood bursting from the nose. He coughed, gagging red, while Sergio struggled to help him up. </p><p>Román prepared to strike again, just as I lunged towards him. And I stopped in my tracks when he cried out.</p><p>Román had fallen, slammed into a puddle by arms behind his back. A boot dug into his shoulder. </p><p>“Fuck!” he cried, “who-”</p><p>He twisted around to look his assailant in the eye. It was you. And oh, Martín, how could I describe your face then? Even a storm would have balked at the rage in your features, etched into every line.</p><p>You glanced at Andrés, his lip split, the rest of him too weak to rise. When you looked back at Román, I knew you meant to kill. </p><p>When Román tried to wriggle from your grip, you dragged him up and smashed him back down. His companions should have tried to stop you, but I think they were afraid- who would have dared, when you had that look in your eyes?</p><p>“I’m someone you don’t want to fuck with,” you said harshly, a near hiss as you wrapped your fist in the collar of his shirt. </p><p>Then you punched him. He fell, spitting, and you struck him again, his nose cracking against your knuckles. He cursed, trying to crawl off, but you’d grabbed him once more, and twisting your fingers into his hair, you raised your bloodied fist for another blow.</p><p>
  <em> “Señor Román, look up.” </em>
</p><p>You turned to the sound of Andrés’ voice, still clutching Román’s abused scalp. Andrés was back on his feet, propped up by Sergio’s hands against his chest and back. Andrés pushed himself away, and stepping out, tilted his head skyward.</p><p>“Is this the retribution you wanted?” he said with another grin, flashing teeth stained with blood.</p><p>The rain bled down, and on his knees, Román watched, stupefied by the crimson now pouring upon his head. You released him. Copper tainted air, all else bleeding red. And instinctively, I ran to hide by Andrés’ leg. </p><p>“What did you do?” Román demanded, his battered face twisting in horror. </p><p>“It won’t let up until I leave. Think of it as a farewell present, Señor.” Andrés shut his eyes, as if listening to the rhythm of rain, a song he was all too familiar with. “An apologia for your sorrows, if you will.”</p><p>Most of the crowd had dispersed by then, leaving Román kneeling in the street. On a better day, I’m sure Andrés would have stopped to gloat. Perhaps he’d pet Román on the face and laugh at the terror in his eyes. But in that moment, I think Andrés meant what he said: the red rains served as an apologia for many things- most of them out of the necromancer’s control- and whether or not men like Román understood, Andrés no longer cared.</p><p>“Come, Tatiana,” he mumbled, and humming to himself, turned away.</p><p>When he stumbled, Sergio reached out. But you intercepted just before he touched his brothers’ arm. Squeezing yourself between them, you hoisted Andrés’ arm around your shoulder, and casting Sergio an icy glare, said, “You’ve done enough.”</p><p>Before the professor could respond, Andrés- his eyes yet opened- rubbed the side of Sergio’s jaw. “Good night, professor.”</p><p>Then wrapping a hand around Andrés’ waist, you led him back into the inn. I kept close behind, and when I saw Sergio try to follow, I looked to him and shook my head. <em> Not now, </em> I tried to tell him, and silently, Sergio obeyed. As I entered behind your steps, I took one last look at Sergio-- his eyes were hidden behind the glint of wet spectacles. </p><p>~~o~~</p><p>“Let’s leave tonight,” you told Andrés as we stumbled up the spiral stairs, all three dripping red, “the rain’s our cue, eh?”</p><p>He staggered forward. “Martín-”</p><p>“Here,” you said, easing him onto the next step, and when his back pressed against the railing, you stooped in front of him. “Let’s sit down.”</p><p>“You shouldn’t have intervened,” Andrés muttered through hooded eyes, “it would have rained anyway.”</p><p>You snorted. “If you’re worried if his skull hurt my knuckles, don’t. It felt good.”</p><p>I settled next to Andrés, and I did not miss the way his mouth almost twitched into a grin.</p><p>“What was that all about anyway?” you asked, checking the inside of your coat.</p><p>“My brother came to fulfill his promise tonight.”</p><p>“Our pay? Then he’s good for something, at least.”</p><p>Andrés ran the back of his wrist across his mouth, smearing the blood from his nose into a patch of scarlet above his lips, dark against the chalk of his skin. “Román accosted him with that idiotic crowd. I can’t fault the bastard for his grief, but stupidity is a blinding ailment.”</p><p>You shrugged. “So nothing we haven’t seen before.”</p><p>You said it easily enough, as if it was another joke on your tongue, but I caught the fury in your gaze, every part of you still simmering at Román.</p><p>“And let me guess, you stepped out to save little brother?” you said dryly, reaching for his wrist.</p><p>“I’m not that noble,” Andrés answered, “Román wanted me. He only used the professor to find me.”</p><p>“Because Santa Catalina blamed you for the girl’s death, which if I remember correctly, you told your brother to encourage. Shit, Andrés, when were you such a martyr?”</p><p>And there, Martín, I sensed your anger. No doubt, Andrés did as well.</p><p>“I never was,” he told you, forcing a chuckle from his throat, “you overestimate me, my friend.”</p><p>You smiled, coldly, perhaps reminiscing about my tale. It must have taken a tremendous amount of control not to tell him all you knew. But you managed, and resisting, you rolled up his sleeve.</p><p>“Let me see,” you said, and seeing the pink gauze, added, “fuck- your wounds reopened.”</p><p>You were right. The gauze of his left forearm was seeping red, I suspect, because of his fall in the street. </p><p>Andrés smacked your hands away then, and pulling his arm back to himself, said, “Leave it, Martín. I’ll handle it myself.”</p><p>“Handle it yourself? Like how you handled yourself out there? If it wasn’t for me, you’d be bleeding to death already.”</p><p>Andrés returned your glare, something sharp in his hardened eyes. “Is that so? Need I remind you who saved your life in Palermo?”</p><p>“I never asked you to,” you said lowly, leveling with him. “And I don’t really see the correlation here.”</p><p>“Here’s the correlation. I saved you because I was bored. You saved me because you have some delusion about our relationship.”</p><p>He clicked his teeth, cocking his head at you as if you were slow. “You’re a man of logic, Martín- does that make sense to you?”</p><p>You grinned, disbelief in each curve of your lips. “And pray tell, what are my delusions? You think I do all this, that I followed you across the continent because I want what, to fuck you?”</p><p>“And why else? You like me too much, and you know it, Martín.” He chuckled. “It’s pitiful, really, the lengths you’d go for me.”</p><p>You were quivering with rage, that grin dropping into a harsh scowl, harsher than I’d ever seen. “And if you pity me so much, why ask me to come with you then? I’m not fucking stupid, Andrés. You asked me to be your partner-”</p><p>“What of it?”</p><p>“Now you’re acting like I'm the dirt beneath your shoe, I don’t buy it-”</p><p>“You think I don’t love you, Martín? Because I did. But I did because I was bored! What part do you not understand?” Andrés threw his head back and chortled. “I wanted a change of pace, a project to pass the time. And now I’m bored again- you were interesting for a while, Martín, but you’ve lost your flavor.”</p><p>You grabbed his shoulders, tight, and seething, said, “What the fuck are you doing? I won’t fall for it, you son of a bitch-”</p><p>“Did you think I wanted a partner? That I was happy sharing my pay?” He grit his teeth. “With a brute who doesn’t know his boundaries?”</p><p>He tore into you, relentless, and for a moment, I think, as you watched his burning gaze, you wondered if you should believe him. For a moment, he was so full of vitriol and anger that you questioned if it had all been an act for a start. And that moment was all he needed to deliver his final blow:</p><p>“You’re a dog to me, Berrote, nothing but a stray I picked up on a whim. So don’t flatter yourself- you were never anything more to me.”</p><p>You kept your hands on his shoulders, nails digging into fabric as you glowered, rage coursing through every vein and nerve. You blanched, lips pursing and nose flaring. You gulped, forcing something hard down the tunnel of your throat. </p><p><em> “Then find yourself another dog,” </em> you said in a whispered hiss, “fuck.”</p><p>And soaking in your trembles, you let go, sliding past him as you returned to your feet. From your coat, you pulled out two bottles of dark glass. You slammed them down beside him.</p><p>“Goodbye,” you spat.</p><p>Then you turned without another glance, the outline of your back burning itself into his gaze. And head held high, you marched down the stairs. I heard the clatter of your boots fade into the night, and if you wept, neither of us could see.</p><p>Did you wonder why I said nothing when Andrés attacked you? No, Martín, it wasn’t because I agreed. It was because I knew he was lying from the very first word. </p><p>I nuzzled Andrés in the thigh. When he looked at me, it was through damp eyes. </p><p>“He bought medicine for you,” I said, “that’s what the bottles are.”</p><p>When he said nothing, I asked, “Did you have to be so cruel?”</p><p>He traced his bleeding arm. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Andrés, why?”</p><p>And quietly, he replied, “I’m running out of time. I know I am. ”</p><p>Slowly, he lifted that arm, and with the opposite hand, unfurled its gauze before my eyes. I gaped when the last bandage fell away. The broken stitches were smeared with blood, but there was something else as well, a jagged coil of rotting grey snaking around his arm, as if burning the skin with soot.  </p><p><em> I’m dying, </em> he said. </p><p>We always knew he was dying, but the reality of it had seemed so far away, a dot in the horizon. It seemed to me that he was always just ahead of that deadline, just far enough to escape its reach. And when the time came, it would be tomorrow. Always tomorrow. </p><p>But tomorrow had finally become today. There would be no tomorrow for him, not this time. And the proof was printed upon his arm.</p><p>“This happened,” I said, “all because of Santa Catalina? What else did you hide from-” I almost said your name. “-Sergio?”</p><p>“The ones that attached themselves to Alison Parker, they weren’t our <em> friends.” </em>With his good hand, he picked up one of the bottles left behind. “Not the ones that live alongside me. They didn’t want any part of me. Deemed my soul too slim.”</p><p>He unscrewed the cap, the bottle shaking in his palms, and if not for my quick paw, the contents would have spilled out. </p><p>“In that chapel, the shadows wanted <em> him </em> instead. They would only leave the girl on this condition.”</p><p>He chuckled, a bitter shake within. “But I’m too selfish. Any part of me, Tatiana, I could give them. Not <em> him.” </em></p><p>I didn’t need to ask if he meant you or Sergio. In his mind’s eye, Sergio was a separate entity, a whole man of his own. You, however, he considered a part of himself, etched into him like moon to dusk. Just as you thought him a part of you. Two broken pieces of the same jigsaw. </p><p>And you, Martín, he could not give up. Not even if he wanted to. </p><p>“So they asked for the next best thing- my time with him.” He poured the bottle over his cuts, wincing as clear liquid burned his skin. “And here we were at odds; I’d already promised myself to our- friends- you see, and they had no intention of fighting for scraps.”</p><p>“Andrés,” I hissed, digging my claws into the side of his shirt, “what stupid thing did your tiny brain do?”</p><p>Undisturbed by my grip, he set the bottle down, knuckles trembling. “I compromised. This body, I sold to them. ‘Devour it,’ I said, and ‘we shall,’ they answered. They won’t touch the spirit. Our friends will keep their claim on this dreary soul of mine.”</p><p>I scratched him then, across the knee, tearing a bit of fabric along. It was reflex, I reflect with some guilt. But in the moment, I didn’t care. I was ten years old again and hearing him speak of dealing with the shadows for the first time. I should have torn the book to pieces that night. Then we would not be here now. </p><p>And I would not have to hear him say those words.</p><p>“Gatita!” he laughed, sounding much like an airy sob, “why so angry? When I die, you’ll survive-”</p><p>“What makes you say that!?”</p><p>“It’s Naranjita’s body you inhabit. And we’ve taken quite good care of her, haven’t we?”</p><p>“Shut up, Andrés!” I screeched, “it’s not about that! It’s about you- Martín was right, you won’t be satisfied until you’re chopped into little bloody pieces, won’t you!?”</p><p>
  <em> “Tranquila-” </em>
</p><p>“I know you,” I told him, voice cracking into Naranjita’s yowl, near unintelligible as my blood boiled, “you’re not doing this for Alison Parker. You don’t give a shit about her or those young women-”</p><p>Perhaps that was true. Or perhaps it was something I needed to believe. </p><p>“Tatiana-”</p><p>“You don’t care about anyone but yourself!”</p><p>And I<em> needed </em> to believe this. I needed <em> him </em> to believe this. Andrés was a selfish man, but in the end, not nearly selfish enough. Perhaps I was too selfish as well, or perhaps Naranjita had attached herself too much to Andrés by then. All I knew was this: I could not watch him damn himself into oblivion again.</p><p>“So why!?” I said, “why why why!?”</p><p>Naranjita could not cry, not unless her eyes were stained with dust and blood. I felt my chest sob, felt the wretched spasms of a weeping face. But no tears came, no matter how much I wished to squeeze them out.</p><p>“Tatiana,” he said again, rubbing his fingers beneath my chin. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Andrés-”</p><p>“Shhhh.” He smiled, eyes hazy. “You’re right. I am a fool. I am a son of a bitch. But I’m a bastard who doesn’t go back on my word- I promised Sergio I would take care of this.”</p><p>So he did. He knew this was how it would end for him. Even at the library, as Andrés listened to Sergio speak, he knew what the task would require. Perhaps even before Toledo. </p><p>“You didn’t come here for the money,” I said, my rage quelled, replaced with a sharp realization. “You knew Sergio was the professor. You knew all along.”</p><p>He’d been ready to die for his brother once. And he was going to do it again.</p><p>“Only an inkling.” He tickled my jaw, knuckles moving back and forth along my cheeks. “I just hadn’t known how bad the situation was.”</p><p>He was not referring to Santa Catalina, I realized with another pang of dread.</p><p>“I made a mistake all those years ago,” he said, the blood on his face having dried to the color of mud, “so it’s only fair I fix it. Sergio shouldn’t have to pay the price.”</p><p>I leaned into his touch. “Neither should you.”</p><p>“I’m not paying a price.” His thumb brushed my whiskers. “I’m merely putting an end to what I started: closing the book. You have no need to grieve, gatita.”</p><p>Don’t call me that, I wished to say, but the words turned to ash on my tongue. Instead, I swallowed the lump in my throat. I looked at his smile again, searing his face into my mind’s eye. Call it premonition, or a cat’s instinct, but I knew this was the last time I would see Andrés whole, in flesh, if not spirit.</p><p>When I asked him who would tend his wounds for the night, he laughed again and said he’d do it himself. As he always had. </p><p>Then tomorrow, he’d said, we would go <em> home. </em></p><p>We hadn’t set foot in that village for decades. He’d never even mentioned it in all that time. It had not been his home then, and it certainly was not now. I had certainly stopped calling it home the moment we left. </p><p>Now we would return, and my gut told me that he would not leave again. </p><p>~~o~~</p><p>You never returned for your belongings. I did wonder how you spent that night, Martín. Maybe at a tavern, drinking and fucking until you convinced yourself you’d forgotten Andrés. Angrier at yourself for leaving than at him for those lies.</p><p>Regardless, Andrés packed our things and delivered on the swift exit he promised. I doubt Toledo could have withstood more of the red rain. When Andrés stepped out of the inn, I glanced down from his shoulder. He was up to his ankles in blood, the streets flooded with no small amount of red.</p><p>At his brother’s request, Sergio had prepared a carriage. It sat waiting for us, no driver in sight, likely because no one was willing to drive the necromancer about.</p><p>After he slipped me inside, Andrés was ready to take the driver’s seat despite my insistence that he not overestimate his skills with the rein. Until another set of hands grabbed the reins first.</p><p>“I’m coming with you,” Sergio told him, protected from the rain by the hood of his cloak, “where do you need to go?”</p><p>“Do you take joy in meddling with my affairs?” Andrés grumbled. “I can drive this myself, professor. Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re in no condition to.” Sergio bumped his spectacles up. “I know about the severity of your injuries. Martín informed me.”</p><p>At the mention of your name, Andrés- in spite of himself, I know- looked past Sergio. But you were nowhere to be seen.</p><p>“Martín and I are no longer partners,” Andrés said darkly. Then to the professor, he added, “and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll want to break ties with me as well.”</p><p>Sergio shook his head. “I’m coming, whether you like it or not. If it’s my fault you’re in this state, this is the least I can do.”</p><p>“It’s not your fault, I assure you. So leave me in peace.”</p><p>Andrés tried to grab the reins again, but Sergio held tight. </p><p>“Where do you need to go?” the professor asked once more, and his grave tone was enough to tell Andrés that there would be no more room for argument.</p><p>For a moment, Andrés held his breath, then relenting, said, “Home.”</p><p>Sergio stood, stiff for a second or two, before he replied, “Our home?”</p><p>Andrés nodded. “That is, if you still remember the way, professor.”</p><p>Sergio’s voice hardened next. “I do.”</p><p>Andrés muttered a quick, “Good,” before climbing into the back with me. He drew the curtains so Sergio could not glance at us from the front, and then promptly collapsed against the seat. I would have cried his name if his hand hadn’t covered my mouth in time.</p><p>He shook his head, and when the wheels began their trudge through crimson water, Andrés sat up. He looked worse to me than he did the night before, little color left in his greying cheeks and something dull about his hair. It made the bruise on his lip appear an inky stain.</p><p>And when the carriage next swerved, our horse clopping along wet streets, I saw Andrés press a palm to his mouth. It came away dusted with red.</p><p>“How’s the damage now?” I asked him, keeping my tone low enough to avoid Sergio’s ears.</p><p>Andrés dabbed away the blood on his chin. Then he pulled apart his coat, and almost drunkenly, undid the buttons of his shirt. I leaned forward, resting my chin upon his knee. Furrows of soot colored his chest and waist, clinging to him like aged burns.</p><p>“Fast,” he said through a forced grin, “so it’s best that I work fast, no?”</p><p>I thought of you then, Martín. Long after Andrés buttoned his shirt back up and the rain faded to a light shower, you lingered on my mind. I knew you did on his as well, but Andrés was too ill to do anything save sleep, head lolling over his shoulder. He woke up a few times, mostly to remark on scenery. </p><p>But the sight of trees behind glass was all the same to me. I had grown sick of landscapes through our years. I imagine it wouldn’t matter to you.</p><p>Had your position been reversed with Andrés, I’m sure you would have done the same. I wanted to blame you, and I’m sure a part of me did. It’s as I said-- perhaps without you, Andrés would never have made that second deal. Or perhaps he would have anyway- for Sergio, if not you. It was inevitable then, that he would meet his end this way.</p><p>What I want to say is this, Martín-- I was wrong about you.</p><p>You didn’t lure in Andrés the same way those shadows once did. You lured him towards you in the same manner as the ceilings of our childhood church. You were not a beam of light in the dark, but rather a drop of rain in the drought. And he would have gladly drowned in you, as you would have in him.</p><p>For all your arrogance, your brashness, your cruelty, your temper, I could not fault you this: you loved him and asked for nothing in return. </p><p>I see that now. As did he.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>In my mind, the village was exactly as I remembered-- little houses the color of clay, plazas of cobbled stone, and just beyond, a cemetery lost in a sea of low grass, hidden by trees and the shadow of San Martín’s church. But that was not quite how it was; the bright colors I recalled- sunshine and rain and apples in my hands- remained trapped on the canvas of my memory. Like the faded colors of San Martín’s sculptures, in need of a hand to restore their paint. </p><p>The colors I saw then, were dulled by time and pain, clearest in the sight of chipped wood and mossy bricks. Everything appeared smaller, maybe because they had always been small. As Sergio guided the carriage on, I felt a vague relief- or disappointment- that the scents and sounds of my childhood did not immediately return. It was for the best; if I’d remembered the feeling of my curls or fingers around my laces, I would have remembered my last night here as well. I would have remembered Andrés stealing my corpse and all that followed.</p><p>And that, I did not.</p><p>So for this comfort alone, I was grateful for the red rain storming through. When we passed the church- as grandiose and beautiful as it had always been- it looked no different than the last time it was touched by skyward blood. A weeping saint standing tall. </p><p>I would later learn that its walls were forever stained from the rain of decades prior, a remnant of the boy they could not erase. He was only a boy, younger than the girls of Santa Catalina, too eager to please and too desperate for love. And the shadows had pretended to be his friends. They fed into a child who blindly believed his fate could change, like the stories he used to read me from his room. </p><p>He’d forgotten that only heroes triumphed in the end. And they had called him the villain from the very start. Then, it was inevitable that the crimson rain brought with it whispers of <em> “Andrés is back.” </em></p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Andrés had asked me if I wished to see my uncle’s home. I declined. There were more pressing matters at hand, and I had no desire to revisit the house where I died, not without recalling the sensation of my neck snapping in half. And to be frank, I wasn’t confident if I even remembered where the house was.</p><p>When we reached Marquina’s home, Sergio untied the horse. As he led it away to rest, I heard Andrés mutter, “They’re everywhere.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>In thought, he nibbled at a finger in the corner of his mouth. “The shadows. They kept to themselves once, but I see that they’ve expanded their territory.”</p><p>He chuckled. “I can sense them in the cracks of the ground, in the shade of roofs, perhaps hiding in the village hearths as we speak.”</p><p>I hopped onto his lap, stretching my limbs. “Do you think your brother unleashed them?”</p><p>“That’s an interesting word, gatita. They were already free creatures. But demons, as you know, operate under a specific set of rules- they can’t go wherever they please, not without attaching themselves to a vessel first.”</p><p>“Like Alison Parker.” <em> And you, </em>I almost said.</p><p>“Exactly. Though sometimes it’s more <em> subtle </em> than that, as you and I know.” His next laugh was dry. “They’re interested in Sergio and they’ve followed him through every corner he called them to.”</p><p>“You should tell him,” I said, “there’s no point in hiding it. He’ll figure it out eventually.”</p><p>He glanced at the bandage on his wrist. “He’ll figure it out. You said so yourself… but he’s not to blame here.”</p><p>“Then who-”</p><p>“I am. The shadows latched onto me first, and I allowed them, if you remember, with no resistance.”</p><p>I had been there at the cemetery that night, as <em> we </em>remember. I would hardly call what I saw ‘no resistance.’ But Andrés did not know. I allowed him to preserve this last shred of dignity. I didn’t tell him.</p><p>“I provided the coals and Sergio found the fire,” he said, moving to open the door, “I freed them, not him. So we share the guilt.”</p><p>The carriage opened, and sticking a palm out, Andrés felt for red drizzle. “But my responsibility is greater than his, at least this time.”</p><p>If you had been with us, what would you have said, Martín? I can no longer predict you.</p><p>Andrés stepped out of the carriage when he saw Sergio approach. Then to me, he held out his arms. I jumped into them, careful to hoist myself onto his shoulder as quickly as I could. In front, Sergio stumbled, his lenses slick with rainwater. Andrés grabbed him by the crook of his arm.</p><p>They stood together for a moment, as if afraid to speak, before Andrés let go. And again, he walked past Sergio as if nothing had happened at all. That was the extent of the attention I paid to their conflict, for my attention was drawn to the state of the Marquina house. </p><p>The groundskeeper’s home had always been unassuming in my memory, a house like any other and little different from my uncle’s home. The tree that Andrés had once been so fond of had grown in the years past. It towered over the roof now, casting a great shadow that drowned out any light from the sky.</p><p>But it was the house itself that filled me with an unwelcome shock. It was drained of the reddish brown that once colored its walls, replaced with a coat of grey and dusty moss. Cracks littered its exterior, like wrinkles of worn paper. And what I’d mistaken for a shadow was instead a splash of charred bricks, blackened by soot and a great past fire. I could see where the flames once licked, their handprints in every corner of Marquina’s home.</p><p>But most disturbing were the boards of wood hammered across the windows and door, as if they were trying to prevent whatever lay inside from crawling its way out. Then I wondered if the fire had started from within instead, and shuddered.</p><p>“You took great care of the house, I see,” Andrés said, rather amused as he took the sight in.</p><p>I shot Sergio a glance that I hoped was accusing. There had been more to his story, important- no, crucial- details that he neglected to tell me.</p><p>“This is,” Sergio replied, “a surprise to me too. I haven’t been back here in…”</p><p>He trailed away, and sensing that there was no point in hiding more from us, said, “There was a fire here, in my youth. The book you left behind, it went up in flames.”</p><p>Andrés grinned, a flare of teeth. “Now, now, professor. The book was just an object, a means to an end. It wouldn’t dare act on its own- unless someone opened it. I’ll venture a guess- you couldn’t resist following in my footsteps?”</p><p>Sergio frowned, likely upset by the accusation. “I wanted to know what happened to you.”</p><p>“And it’s as I asked, did you like the answer?”</p><p>Sergio pursed his lips, a sharpness in his eyes, but he did not otherwise respond.</p><p>“Explain the rest of this to me,” Andrés said, waving a hand towards the wooden boards.</p><p>“I’ll venture a guess,” Sergio replied, throwing his brother’s words back, “I wasn’t… popular growing up. The people, especially the fathers of San Martín, had particular expectations for me.”</p><p>The source of his unpopularity was quite obvious, Martín. Sergio asked questions the powers that be did not like, and he dared to study what they could not answer. He would have been the village outcast even without the burden of Andrés’ legacy on his shoulders. But they had already seen what his brother could do, and it was not a matter of if Sergio would follow his path, but when. </p><p>“So you were a pariah?” Andrés remarked, and through a laugh, said, “that’s one thing we have in common.”</p><p>Sergio, for his part, had no desire to play along with the joke-- perhaps in another lifetime, he would have rolled his eyes and reprimanded his brother’s tongue. </p><p>“I’ll admit that the book had many uses for me at first,” Sergio told him, “but I was unable to take it out of the village. I can’t quite explain… but it refused to leave with me.”</p><p>He gestured at the boards. “I assume that’s what these are for. The church swept father’s home after I left, and discovered it lying within.”</p><p>Andrés was silent for a bit. Then he spoke. “There were no repercussions for you?”</p><p>Again, he was goading his brother and Sergio knew. But the professor had no choice but to answer.</p><p>“I don’t know. I was gone by then. But beforehand, they were hoping I would take father’s place- after his death, the cemetery was hard to control. The dead were harder to placate without him. So they granted me more tolerance than they would have liked.”</p><p>Sergio adjusted his sliding spectacles, the rain still beating down on his cloak. “But I had no intention of doing their dirty work.” </p><p>Andrés regarded him with the slightest of impressed gazes. “You realize the church will punish you as soon as it can?”</p><p>“I do. But they’ll have to find me first.” Sergio met his gaze. “And I’ve always been good at hiding.”</p><p>“Yet you drove me here anyway? And here I thought you were intelligent, professor.”</p><p>Sergio’s voice was steely when he spoke next. “Driving you was my choice. And now I think it’s fair for you tell me why the fuck you decided to come back.”</p><p>Andrés walked ahead of him, until he stood before the boarded door. And knocking on wood, he said, “Isn’t it obvious, professor? To take back what’s mine.”</p><p>He turned his head, offering Sergio a cold sneer. “You still haven’t figured out why the book refused to leave? Because it belongs to me. All of this belongs to me- your shadows, your dealings-”</p><p>He laughed with a tilt, the sound not unlike scratchy coughs. “In fact, this house belongs to me. I don’t know what ‘fantasies’ you’ve concocted about me, Marquina, but to me, you’ve always been a bug in my way.”</p><p>I expected Sergio to stare at him the way you had, with that flare of anger and hurt. But instead, he looked at Andrés blankly, as if analyzing what lay behind each word. Andrés was too lost in his spew to notice. </p><p>“What are you saying?” Sergio said roughly.</p><p>“I hated you, little brother. Whatever they told you about me here-- they were right. I tried to kill you the night I left, and unfortunately, I failed. It was embarrassing really- you were such a sickly babe.”</p><p>“Andrés, whatever you tried to do with me as a child- it’s hardly relevant now.”</p><p>Andrés laughed again, like sifting sand. “Oh, but it is! I’ve dreamt of this day for ages. That one day I could return here and say to you, ‘Papa is dead. And I can finally take back what’s rightfully mine.’”</p><p>Sergio grit his teeth, snapping out, “Then why didn’t you want me to come? I’m not an idiot.”</p><p>“Because it was a dream, nothing more. I can’t stand the sight of you, professor-- you <em> not </em> being here would have made this better.”</p><p>The professor drew a hard breath, then released. “Andrés, I know you’re angry with me. I made a mistake with the book, and for that, I apologize- but I can fix it. If you’ll help me.”</p><p>“Not a mistake.” Andrés stalked towards him then, jabbing a finger into his brother’s chest. “A transgression. Was it not enough that you stole my birthrights? My father? You had to dig your hands into my practice?”</p><p>Sergio stepped forward, making to grab Andrés by the arm. He was shoved back. </p><p>“Andrés, tell me what you want. I won’t play games with you-”</p><p>“I want you gone. Go back to Toledo and never come back. I’ll collect what’s mine and we’ll part ways forever more.”</p><p>“No,” Sergio shot back, “I won’t-”</p><p>“You’ve already brought me here and paid for our deal- I have no more use for you. So get out of my sight!”</p><p>Andrés was loud, quite clear in his anger. But incensed, Sergio refused to back away. When I leapt from Andrés’ shoulder, Sergio drew himself to his full height, and glaring down at his elder brother, said, “Make me. Kill me like you wanted to. I won’t fight back.”</p><p>“What makes you think I won’t?” Andrés hissed.</p><p>“Then do it. Take out the knife and slit my throat.”</p><p>“I’m warning you, professor-”</p><p>Sergio grabbed his bandaged wrist, squeezing hard. “Surely you know how to kill a man. Cut me across the arm like you did yourself. Or-”</p><p>He yanked Andrés forward, pressing the hand in his grip to his own chest. “-Stab me through the heart, Andrés. Or perhaps under the armpit. There are many ways to kill a man. Are you familiar?”</p><p>Andrés laughed in his face, brittle. “What makes you think you’re worth the effort? I don’t waste time killing bugs.”</p><p>Sergio locked eyes with him, as if pondering what to do next. That was the moment I heard an abrupt call.</p><p>
  <em> “Sergio Marquina!” </em>
</p><p>I looked to the source, and fast approaching, was a group of five, six men, priests I could honestly not recognize. The fathers of my youth had surely passed on then. By the look on their faces, I could tell the brothers’ return was an unpleasant shock.</p><p>Distracted, Sergio let Andrés go.</p><p>“Good luck, professor,” Andrés told him with another laugh. </p><p>Leaving Sergio to deal with the holy men, Andrés ran to the door and kicked it open. Before Sergio could follow, he was swarmed by those men. And I slipped inside with Andrés before they noticed me as well.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>“The door opened itself for you,” I told Andrés as we climbed towards the cellar, Marquina’s house all but drowned in dust and webs.</p><p>“Or perhaps my kick was too powerful?” he said.</p><p>“You’re as powerful as a fly right now,” I scoffed, “the shadows know you’re here. They let you in.”</p><p>“Yes, the prodigal son has returned.” He rammed his shoulder into the cellar door, again and again until it let up.</p><p>“Sergio didn’t believe a word you said,” I informed him, descending the stairs at his heels, “whatever you’re planning, he’ll find out.”</p><p>“It won’t matter. I’ll be done by then.”</p><p>There was a low tone to his last phrase, something that told me his plan could not be reversed. I think I knew all along what he intended-- I merely too afraid to admit it. We both knew that the shadows were growing tired of Andrés, that he was running out of life for them to feed upon. At Santa Catalina, the demons had asked for you, not him. And here, they were already preparing to move on. Should Andrés finally die, they would no waste no time in finding their next target.</p><p>They had loved Andrés for his desperation, and they now loved Sergio for his ambition.</p><p>But Andrés loved Sergio more. And the professor would find out soon enough.</p><p>When he found the leather book under a pile of ash, Andrés picked it up and flicked through each page, every inch crumbling to the touch. The book was falling apart, singed at its corners and burnt by years of neglect.</p><p>“Is it so important that everyone hates you?” I asked him, “why all the lies, Andrés?”</p><p>He bit his thumb, teeth drawing blood. “It makes for a more dignified exit. I’d rather they laugh when I’m gone. Tears are too unseemly.”</p><p>He lowered his thumb, dripping blood into the book’s pages, and I’m unsure if it was a trick of the eye when the book began regaining its past lustre.</p><p>“And imagine, gatita, crying for a necromancer?” He shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve never heard of it.”</p><p>“Then why didn’t you try sending me away?”</p><p>“I thought of it,” he answered honestly, “but it didn’t seem plausible. You’ve known me for too long, Tatiana. And I you- sometimes it’s as if you can read my thoughts.”</p><p>“You have <em> thoughts?” </em> I said.</p><p>We laughed then, however uncomfortably. I don’t know why we were so determined to smile in that moment, maybe because of some twisted notion that it would soften the blow of what was to come. Or maybe because I knew we would never laugh together again.</p><p>It’s not too late, I wanted to tell him, put down the book and leave with Sergio. </p><p>Let the shadows fester here, let them move onto your brother, let them take Martín. They were terrible thoughts, I knew, selfish, rabid things I could only say to myself in the dark. I could have said he owed the village nothing, that they deserved their fate for everything they had done to us, to his mother, to his brother.</p><p>But Martín, Andrés always had a twisted view of the world. He did not believe he was saving the village, nor would he have wanted to do such a thing. But he felt as if the shadows had left their catacombs because of him, and that fate demanded he send them back. What’s more, I think, he would have done anything for his brother. That was a habit he had never shaken.</p><p>A great part of it was love. But there was a smaller part there, a deformed state of mind that told him his life was only worth as much as it could be used. Had you and I known earlier, Martín, perhaps we could have changed it before it became too late.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>While Sergio argued with the village priests, there, I assume, to arrest him for bringing Andrés back, we snuck out the broken window and returned to the town streets. “On what grounds?” I heard Sergio say, and that was the extent I heard.</p><p>You would later tell me that you’d returned to the inn at dawn. You demanded the keepers tell you where we’d gone. And you’d purchased a horse for the sole purpose of following the brothers to their home.</p><p>You were never far behind, I learned. It was still pouring red by the time you arrived. And when it drizzled, you visited San Martín. Did you confess within? To a father willing to listen? Or did you kneel before the portrait of your namesake, his figure painted upon the chapel’s stained glass, and weep?</p><p>If anything, you would have grieved Matteo- perhaps you were asking that dead boy what to do then. Or were you thinking of your dead mentor and the words of wisdom he never said? Then you would have confessed to your greatest sin-- loving Andrés. But what you considered the greater sin, I knew, was wishing he did not love you back. It would make it easier to watch him burn.</p><p>He did not deserve saving, you knew, but you wanted nothing more. Perhaps you wished then to take his place in hell. It was selfish to demand he would watch you die instead, but if he lived on, it was well worth your twisted price.</p><p>But you were a man of science-- you knew wishful thinking had no place in your world. Your mind made up, you left the chapel then and began your search for Marquina’s home.</p><p>While you searched, Andrés and I found ourselves back in the cemetery where his mother had died. It opened for us as well, a maze of stones and grass beckoning the two of us back in. Sergio’s words were correct-- the cemetery had indeed changed without a groundskeeper to appease its writhing bones. The cemetery had always been old. But it appeared ancient to me then, each grave covered with dried petals and dark moss. </p><p>I felt them under the dirt beneath my feet. Silent spirits begging for warmth, a human soul to drive away the lonely cold. I sympathized, really, for I remember what it was like to be dead. I remember the dull dread in my heart and the need to sob, every part of me forgotten and lost. </p><p>The ghosts trapped beneath had felt it for years, some for centuries. It didn’t matter if their souls had gone to heaven or hell-- their ghosts were left behind in the wake of their deaths, remnants of whatever gripes they had with life. These soulless things could only sing their woes through blades of grass, their rotting skulls adorned with wilting flowers and thorns.</p><p>Marquina had stopped changing the flowers since he died, and Sergio had abandoned that duty the moment he left home. And there were not enough grieving men willing to take the Marquinas’ place, not with the graveyard’s rumored curse slipping through its very own cracks.</p><p>That must have been why the ghosts welcomed us so easily, as if the winds and wreaths were alive with song. The trees, taller still than I recalled, leered at us, crooked branches stretching through torn leaves. All together, they caged us in. The sun bled above, dipping down until it was no more. The rain had stopped.</p><p>And under that moonless sky, Andrés arrived at his mother’s tree. It towered over him, as it did back then, and it had grown thicker in the years we’d been gone, rougher, its roots twisting so far into the ground that the tree had become one with the soil and grass.</p><p>“I’ve come back,” Andrés said to the air.</p><p>He pulled out the book, then began ripping pages from within. “Leave him. It’s me you want.”</p><p>Andrés knelt then, laying the book down. He shrugged his coat off, and tucking it around his shoulders, began rolling up his right sleeve. I barely saw the glint of his knife.</p><p>Hot blood splashed upon the pages, spilling into eight even parts. The gauze, now soaked, lay in a useless scrap.</p><p>The shadows spoke to him, but I couldn’t hear. I sensed it, or rather, Naranjita did. I did not know what they said, but under my skin, I felt their answer: a resounding “no.”</p><p>“Are you so sure?” Andrés asked, the tip of his knife poking his chin.</p><p>A breeze whistled through, but whatever it said, only he could hear. Andrés threw his head back and laughed, voice cracking with the wind. He slipped the knife back into his belt, and standing, picked the book up. </p><p>He watched its pages flutter, and said grimly, “Then <em> you </em> help me. Take what you will, when you will. And drive them away.”</p><p>Almost immediately, the book burst into flames. Shocked by the heat, Andrés dropped it, letting it land by his shoe, corners quickly burning to ash. He staggered then, stumbling onto one knee with a loud cry.</p><p>“Andrés!” I screamed, darting to his side.</p><p>I couldn’t see his face, only the black of his rippling coat and the orange cast of flickering flames. But when I wedged myself over his torso, I felt a clump of heat fall upon my head. It seeped into my fur, liquid. And the smell was unmistakable.</p><p>Blood.</p><p>With no small horror, my eyes found his right shoulder and trailed down, stopping at what remained of his forearm-- nothing. Only a stump in place of his elbow, smeared with rapidly gathering red. As if his arm had been pinched into smoke.</p><p>“Andrés,” I whispered, my mind suddenly numb, “no, no…”</p><p>Then he snickered, each laugh laced with obvious pain. Shaking, his left hand rubbed my brow, and near breathless, he said, “It’s- it’s all right, gatita- it’s nothing-”</p><p>He held back another cry of pain, releasing me to cradle his bleeding stump. I nuzzled him, unable to do much else. As the book burned on, he limped forward, each step heavier than the last until he tripped over a root.</p><p>Lying in the grass, his knees curled, the coat pooling around him like blood. And under it, his blood fed the earth, coloring grey soil a deep shade of wine.</p><p>“You didn’t say this would happen,” I hissed at him.</p><p>He picked himself up with a groan, and still holding the bleeding stump, dragged the rest of his body towards the source of that tree’s roots. He pressed his spine against the bark behind, and with shut eyes, allowed himself to slip down. Until he was sitting between the roots of his mother’s tree, skull against its trunk, and all else shielded by the wretched leaves above.</p><p>“I didn’t know either,” he told me, the end of each word barely sounding out, “but I’m not surprised.”</p><p>My mind again working, I knew what exactly he’d done. The cemetery’s shadows had refused to let his brother go. As he’d said, Andrés was no longer enticing enough a soul. He called on Santa Catalina’s demons then, to cast his former allies out. Their price was simple: the rest of his flesh, here and now.</p><p> “I’m glad really,” he muttered, fingers tight against his torn elbow, blood eagerly spilling past his palm, “I didn’t… didn’t expect it to be this fast…”</p><p>Neither had I. Whatever Andrés had planned, I thought I’d be prepared for. But to see him destroyed at such a rate? I too had hoped he would receive his dignified death. And indeed, the shadows believed we asked for too much-- they were angry at Andrés’ betrayal, and as the book burned, they fought to burn what little of him remained.</p><p>“You son of a bitch,” I spat. “Idiot, idiot, idiot-”</p><p>I hopped onto his lap and buried my face into his stomach. His bones were sharp against me, a sign of too much weight lost between the years. I was grateful then, that Naranjita could not cry, for in my heart, I was already soaking his shirt with my tears.</p><p>His bloodied fingers raked through my head, carding the fur back and forth. And when I dared look up, I saw his lopsided smile, a spot of blood in the corner of his mouth.</p><p>His eyes were glistening in the dark. And as much as I wanted to scream at him again, the words died in my throat. Because his smile looked as it had back then, again reaching his eyes.</p><p>I hated what I remembered then, Martín. I thought back, against all reason, to a Christmas we’d spent in the belltower. The church had been flooded with people, villagers come to pray and sing through the night. But that morning, as Uncle played his organ for the smiling priests, Andrés and I explored the empty belltower. He’d wanted to touch the great bells.</p><p>Of course, he could not climb so high, so we’d ended up hiding in the dome, giggling like mice in the dark. </p><p>“I got you something, Andrés,” I’d told him, my voice echoing off the walls.</p><p>He’d looked at me as if I was mad. Señor Marquina, it seemed, had stopped celebrating the holidays since the death of his wife. Or perhaps the sight of Andrés had always been unwelcome to him on Christmas day. Thinking back, it was clear that he had never received a gift in his life. Then, my memory blurs. Andrés had given me something as well, but I couldn’t recall what- a ribbon? A comb? Perhaps a paintbrush he’d stolen from Father Fuentes?</p><p>I remember what I gave him, a cat I’d carved from a piece of soap. It was clumsy and resembled a dog much more. But I was proud of it. What I remember most clearly though, was the way Andrés had laughed.</p><p>It was as if the bells were tolling above. He held the figurine to his chest, cupping it between his hands as if it was the most precious thing in the world. He had been so happy, Martín, smiling like a flower in the sun. There was, for once, nothing naughty about his grin, nothing wicked in his laugh, nothing save a child’s humble joy.</p><p>
  <em> “Thank you, Tatiana,” he’d told me and I knew he’d wanted to cry. </em>
</p><p>“Thank you Tatiana,” he said to me now, “for everything.”</p><p>When I next blinked, Andrés was choking on blood, again a man who would never laugh like that boy again. When he spat the offending red out, he said to me, “When I’m gone, find Martín. He’ll care for you-”</p><p>“Stop talking,” I growled, “I’d rather die than rely on Martín, and you’re not dead yet-”</p><p>“But soon,” he interrupted, pushing for breath. </p><p>And looking upwards, he said in a daze, “I didn’t think I’d die here, the same place as her… don’t you find it poetic?”</p><p>“I think the blood loss is getting to you.” But I could not deny another shudder trickling through my spine, because I saw a woman swinging in the breeze above, her pale feet brushing the rustling leaves. No, she was only an image between the branches. There was no one there.</p><p>But I knew there was, however faint, if only because of the ring of moss I saw. It dangled like a noose, as if coaxing Andrés into taking its thread.</p><p>“I was too young to remember her,” he said, sliding further down the trunk, “But when my mother died… even until her last breath, she believed my father would love her... that he’d- he’d save her in the end.”</p><p>I pulled myself onto his chest, trying to block that noose from view, then put a paw to his brow. It was matted with sweat, and as I expected, burning with fever. Below, the roots were turning scarlet, nourished with his blood, itself still spilling in fresh heaps.</p><p>“I’m no different,” he confessed, “I thought that if I wanted it enough, my father would love me. That everyone would…”</p><p>I glared at the roots. De Fonollosa did not know what she was leaving behind. She did not know how much blood her son would shed and how little it would mean. And her ghost did not care how much blood those roots swallowed as he spoke. </p><p>“But wanting isn’t enough. People like Mam<span>á </span>and I,” he went on, “learn too late because we thought we deserved too much.”</p><p>“What are you talking about, idiot!?” I cried, unable to stand more of his drivel, “you’re bleeding to death because you’re trying to save Sergio and his fucking village. If you’re as selfish as you think, you’re awful at proving it.”</p><p>He allowed a peal of raspy laughter, quite grating to my ears. I’d wanted to slash my claws across his lips. </p><p>“Do you know why I loved Sergio so much?” he whispered, “I thought, because he was my brother, that he was supposed to love me back. That he had no choice but to.”</p><p>Then his hand came to stroke my nape. “And you, Tatiana- you were… far better to me than I was to you. I should have left you in peace, but I was too self-centered, too stubborn- never once did I think about anyone else.”</p><p><em> But did anyone ever think of you back then? </em> I wished to retort. But I knew Andrés had become deaf to my scolding, trapped in his haze of pain and fever. He was spouting anything that came to his mind, then, things he had once been too proud- no, ashamed- to say. What could I say to him then?</p><p>He’d spent half a lifetime condemning the boy he once was. I could not expect him to absolve that boy with his dying breath. And still, I said-</p><p>“What child isn’t selfish? What child doesn’t want to be loved?” I pressed myself against his shoulder, nudging my head beneath his jaw. “Andrés, you’re the worst bastard I know. But what you did in the past- that isn’t evil. That’s called ‘being human.’”</p><p>He said nothing, erratic breaths heavy above. It’s true, Martín, at first I resented him greatly for what he’d done. But the truth is, I’m unsure what the source of my anger really was-- the fact that he failed to raise my own body from the dead, or the fact that I knew deep down, had the tables been turned, I would have done the same. That perhaps I was just as wicked as the two of you.</p><p>So when he asked me if I hated him, if ever had, I shook my head. I never regretted a moment spent in Naranjita’s shape. Something slipped down my cheek then. I licked at it, tasting wet salt. </p><p>I thought I was weeping until another drop rolled down my brow. Andrés was crying, in spite of his silent grin. </p><p>“I used to think we’d get married,” he told me, “I would become a master painter, you would replace your uncle at the organ, our wedding would be at the chapel. Singing monks. The whole village would attend.”</p><p>I once thought the same, I admit. And maybe in another life, it happened exactly as he described. And right now, that version of me was playing the piano for our children, Andrés grinning as he snuck kisses from behind. Would we have been happy? That, I don’t know. </p><p>Happiness, I think, was something the three of us would never understand. But that day on the stairs of Toledo, I believe Andrés knew what it meant. When he looked upon your face in the rain. And I believed no one would ever replace you then.</p><p>“If we married,” I said, “we’d separate within the year. I can barely stand you as it is.”</p><p>His chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle. “Perhaps you’re right, gatita.”</p><p>We remained in silence for some moments more, not unlike the night we spent curled upon his grandfather’s stone. In place of the match was the crumbling book, its yellow fire quickly turning a shade of blue.</p><p><em> What next? </em> I’d asked him. Andrés told me to wait for the toll of San Martín’s bells. Once midnight struck, he would move to the back of his mother’s tree. Santa Catalina’s shadows would take him then, and with his death, disappear. The rest of him, the cemetery would drag to hell. And by dawn, the necromancer would be no more.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Sergio was a brilliant man, far too clever for his own good. And Andrés had been betting on that fact. He knew his brother would not rest until he figured out where we’d gone. He had no doubt that the professor had some scheme to plot our escape. But returning to Toledo was not in Andrés’ future. </p><p>And that was the fatal factor to Sergio’s plan.</p><p>That was, I think, the point where your path converged with his. As you asked the ever anxious villagers if they knew where Marquina lived, your mind replayed the images of San Martín. You thought of the painted windows and their proud saint. But you were not thinking of the mural’s beauty, no, you were thinking of how its light refracts.</p><p>Like the elements of your work, the light bends for the mortal eye, sometimes to a different shape entirely. But the essential source remains the same. You linked it to the eternal soul and your abandoned quest for its preservation. A more pious man would have called it a divine revelation.</p><p>You called it a plan so mad that it might work.</p><p>Perhaps you hadn’t yet connected it to the wretched book, but you knew there was a source to the shadows, a source that had bound itself to Andrés. You would find it then, and filter something else through, something that could pass itself for the immortal soul. So enticing that you could trick them into relinquishing him, and then, you would destroy that vessel before it could see what you’d done.</p><p>What had you planned to use? Your eye, you’d said, the window to the soul, enough perhaps to trick those demons into thinking they’d found the real thing. You were fully intent on clawing your eye out, even both if needed, to carry out this mad scheme. </p><p>You told me of this plan often in the coming years, never without a taste of regret. The fatal factor to your plan was speed. You were simply a step too late.</p><p>You missed Andrés by not even a minute’s time. We’d slipped out seconds before you stumbled upon Sergio and the priests. When they took the professor away, you followed. I have no doubt that he had his own means of escape, but your arrival certainly made it easier. Sergio would later tell me that you found him behind the bars of a catacomb cell. You’d taken great cares to sneak in and you hoped to leave the very same way. Sergio, however, showed you a tunnel of bones that led back out.</p><p>It was a tunnel he’d started digging as a child, whenever he was not studying with the priests of San Martín. You found it ridiculous, but he’d earned your grudging respect. You helped him through that path and by the time you two made it out, Andrés had long since made his final deal.</p><p>When Sergio’s captors discovered him missing, they lit their torches and took to searching the maze of woods nearby. You, perhaps knowing that Andrés would have done the same, told Sergio to go on, and took it upon yourself to draw them away. </p><p>While you led them on that wild chase, midnight struck against San Martín’s bells.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Andrés shoved himself along the trunk, leaving a handprint of blood with every push. By then, there was no color left in his cheeks save the blood dripping down his chin. When his coat hit the ground, he reached the back of his mother’s tree.</p><p>I looked to the book first, pages disintegrating before my eyes, then to where Andrés stood. The tree, it seemed, had grown within hours, its scarred bark opening into a hollow of black. From within, branches gnarled out, sharp and clawlike as their limbs cracked and cracked.</p><p>The roots moved, sliding upwards in great coils, as if spurred by the stench of Andrés’ blood. Misshapen branches curled around him, wrists of leaves and wooden nails. Brambles broke from shifting mulch, berries stained red as they reached for incoming prey.</p><p>Andrés came to stand at the edge of that hollow, an eternity of abyss ahead. He steadied himself, perhaps taking the time to feel the breeze on his face. He allowed the air to wash his lungs, dry and cold, and even the pain, he took a final moment to cherish.</p><p><em> Why you? </em> I’d asked him through a straining voice. <em> Let’s turn back.  </em></p><p><em> Why not? </em> Had been the bastard’s reply. <em> Goodbye, Tatiana. </em></p><p>He turned, until I could see his face. He carried a smile, the same teasing smirk I knew so well. But he didn’t mean to taunt me then. It was a farewell-- an apology for the lifetime we had shared.</p><p>“Andrés-” I tried to cry.</p><p>But he shut his eyes, and allowed himself to fall back. The hollow caught him, branches closing around his limbs, the trunk’s very wood coming to crush him from behind. I watched a root wind itself around his mouth, twisting until it’d muted all sound.  </p><p>Should I spare you the details of what happened next? He would have preferred you not to know. But I know you, Martín. You would never coddle yourself when it came to him-- you’d wish to know every last bit.</p><p>After the tree had bound him back, they tore into him. Thorns carved through fabric and into skin, digging until flesh burst into blood. Wooden claws closed around his throat, his limbs, his chest. I wished to look away, but I refused, if only to spite the demons come to collect their pay.</p><p>As the branches cracked, I heard the crunch of a rib. Then two, then three. Until the cage around his heart had been crushed like twigs. I saw more roots join in the carnage, the shadow of hands pulling and prying at his form, burning every part they touched, as if each shadow was eager for its share of blood.</p><p>And there was blood, Martín, more from one man than I’d ever seen. The thorns raked him from head to toe. And the branches continued to wind and curve, smashing through bone and skin as brambles and roots worked from below. The hollow was soon filled with blood, a deep crimson that streamed through the cracks of bark, dying tips of dried leaves red. It smeared the grass below his limp feet, bled into the dirt beneath, and splattered the tree with red.</p><p>The more he bled, the more eager those shadows were to flay what remained. I was sickened to the stomach, but I refused to retch. And as much I wished to tear at those thirsty roots, I knew my claws would make no difference. All Andrés wanted was that I watched him pass with some semblance of dignity.</p><p>Between the thorns and wood, I could make out the shape of ripped clothing and flesh. Once fine fabric hung in shreds. Wounds covered skin, too deep to scar or mend, slivers of white bone behind running blood. Not even a corpse of him would remain.</p><p>
  <em> “Andrés!” </em>
</p><p>At that voice, it all stopped. I started, twisting on my heels to see who’d arrived. Out of breath, Sergio trudged over a branch, stumbling to his knees before our gory sight.</p><p>His spectacles sat askew, face littered with cuts and dirt, the most disheveled I’d seen him yet. But he had no eyes for me, only the sight of his brother hanging within the bloodied hollow.</p><p>“Andrés,” he said again, as if the name could dispel that sight, “Andrés-”</p><p>Terror blanched him, but Sergio stood firm. I wholly believe he would have stormed towards the hollow and pried Andrés out with his bare hands. But the roots and branches chose to release his brother then.</p><p>They’d already fed on him for all he was worth. What little scraps of life he had left were hardly anything now. But if he could cling on for even a moment longer, their feast would resume. You see, the will to live was what they found most enticing of all.</p><p>To prolong his torment and its taste, they would allow respite. So Andrés fell, dropping like a rag doll into Sergio’s arms, the professor looking upon his wounds with what I could only describe as utmost horror.</p><p>Instinctively, Sergio set him on the ground, and rubbing his bloodied brow, said, “Andrés, stay with me, please- please-”</p><p>He tore off his sleeve, roping it into a tourniquet around the stump of Andrés’ arm. “Damn it, what were you thinking- you’ll be all right, you’ll-”</p><p>I came to Sergio’s side, just as Andrés flickered back to consciousness with a whispered, <em> “Sergio-” </em></p><p>It was the first time he’d addressed the professor by his name. Sergio froze, bending to meet his brother’s gaze. I could sense his relief, buried deep under the panic and rage.</p><p>“Place- your hand behind my waist,” Andrés managed to wheeze out, eyelids heavy as they struggled to rise.</p><p>His voice was hoarse, little louder than the twilight breeze, choked by pain and the furrows of soot around his throat.</p><p>And when Sergio obeyed, he found the necromancer’s knife. Slowly, he pulled it out, and prepared to stand, perhaps ready to smash the blade through that tree.</p><p>“Stay,” Andrés ordered, and left arm shaking as it rose, brought his hand to the wound over his chest, “kill me.”</p><p>Sergio gaped, staring at Andrés as if he’d lost his mind. </p><p>“You have to kill me, Sergio,” his brother said, blood welling within his mouth, “take the knife to- San Martín. Tell them you killed me. The shadows will- disappear.”</p><p>Andrés raised his remaining hand, cupping his palm behind Sergio’s head. “You’ll be a hero… clear your name.”</p><p>Sergio shook his head. “No! No, that’s insane- please, Andrés-”</p><p>He clenched his teeth, every muscle fighting to hold back unshed tears. Sergio was a clever man. He knew the logic in Andrés’ words. He knew his brother to be right. But logic had no place for Sergio then.</p><p>“Andrés, no,” he said, “I won’t let you, not again-”</p><p>By then, Andrés’ hand had made its way to the back of Sergio’s neck. He pulled his brother downwards, closer. And I saw the knife come dangerously close.</p><p>“I never hated you,” Andrés muttered.</p><p>Sergio’s spectacles fell, cracking against the dirt. I heard steel enter flesh.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Andrés hugged him tight, Sergio’s head resting against the crook of his neck, eyes wide in shock. </p><p><em> “I love you very much, hermanito,” </em> Andrés whispered into his brother’s ear, <em> “don’t forget it.” </em></p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Sergio looked at his hands, then to the dagger lodged within Andrés’ chest. I didn’t hear what he said next. I only knew that Sergio broke before my eyes. He placed his hands around the blade, trying and failing to stem the spilled blood. But it hardly mattered. </p><p>Andrés was barely breathing by then, too wounded to speak, having shed too much blood to move. He lay at death’s door, the earth soaked in his blood, the last of it enough to seal the necromancer’s final deal.</p><p>I doubt he could hear Sergio’s sobs or feel his tears. He only lay limp as Sergio cradled his head. Numb, I wanted to think of him at his worst. I wanted to remember the man who’d slit another’s throat for barely a reason at all. I wanted to remember the ugliest things he’d said and done. I wanted to remember how many he’d crushed beneath his shoe, how many times he’d laughed while others screamed.</p><p>But then, I could only remember his face as he stroked my chin, a loving “gatita” on his tongue. I remembered the way he’d brushed my fur. I remembered the silk ribbon he’d tied into a bow around my neck.</p><p>I remembered him grabbing me by the hand, a devil-may-care grin as he led me up the chapel stairs. I remembered the false apples he’d painted and how he’d laughed. I remembered sharing a blanket with him in winter by Sergio’s cradle. I remembered the sweets we’d stolen, the taste of chocolate on my tongue, and the smudge of sugar on his lips.</p><p>I remembered the boy I loved. </p><p>Naranjita could not cry. Tatiana could. I wept then, a flake of dust having found its way into my eye, sharp and stinging. It did not rain when Andrés died, Martín-- it snowed.</p><p>Soft petals of ice drifted from the sky, tinged with pink as soon as they landed on the stained ground. Frozen blood that dusted Andrés’ face and the church beyond.</p><p>When Sergio looked up, his face streaked with salt and hair peppered with snow, he saw you standing above the burnt book. It was no more than a pile of fire by then, and the light from its flames shaped your features into a face not unlike a portrait upon stained glass.</p><p>You didn’t speak, perhaps because you couldn’t.</p><p>You were holding a hand to your shoulder, no small amount of blood slipping from the gash underneath. From the scuffle with your pursuers, you’d said. But you’d gotten away in the end. But not fast enough, a moment late.</p><p>Your eyes, Martín, were the color of thawed ice, warmed by grief.</p><p>You limped towards us, breaths harsh as you knelt by where Andrés lay, his broken body soaked with red. You hovered above him, lips trembling in the cold. You blinked, tears slipping down the bridge of your nose, to the tip and onto<em> his </em> face. And the sight of him then, so lifeless and bloodied, convinced you what you saw was true. </p><p>You pried the blade from his chest. It sank into the snow.</p><p>“Let him go,” you said to Sergio, tongue curling into a hoarse snarl. </p><p>When he refused, you pushed him away. As for Andrés, you pulled him into your arms. You held him tight, head buried in his broken collar, and rocking back and forth, you wept. You choked on your sobs, your shirt soon stained with his blood. You let it color your skin, your tears, your hands. </p><p>You’d wanted to save him, and more than any of us, you believed you could. A long time ago, I would have said-- <em> You know how this story ends, Martín-- don’t pretend otherwise. Don’t pretend you can change it. You can’t save him. No one can. </em></p><p>But as he drew his last breath in your embrace, the beginning of a smile on his pale lips, I think he- for at least that moment- believed himself worth saving, worth loving. He died listening to the rhythm of your thumping heart. It beat behind your ribs, rapid as it made up for years of movement lost, and the sensation was too much.</p><p>It beat for you once when you fell in love. And it beats for you now when you felt yourself shattered in two.</p><p>And still, you held him through the night, clinging to his body as you shielded him from the snow. I watched frost turn pink and ice bleed red. </p><p>When the bell next rang, a ghostly hum in the frigid air, I believe it tolled for him.</p><p>~~o~~</p><p>Sergio and I huddled together through the night, not far behind from where you sat, Andrés limp in your arms. We listened to your sobs and curses, and when dawn finally came, you were rendered mute with grief.</p><p>I admit, even after the hours passed, I could not believe Andrés was gone. His corpse lay torn asunder but I could not help but think he would wake and smile his crooked grin. Perhaps you did as well. But Sergio understood clearest of all that his brother was dead.</p><p>And in that moment, I knew every body he’d raised had crumbled as well. No trace of the necromancer would remain. I thought then, that it would not be so bad to disappear along, if only because it would be better than feeling this grief.</p><p>Dread, sorrow, anger-- I had been used to it all. Grief, I realize, was something that I had never quite understood. Now I did.</p><p>And, Martín, I would have done anything to wish it away. But I remained in Sergio’s arms, blinking at the morning sky, flakes of white mingling with red snow.</p><p>“Tatiana,” the professor said, his voice breaking with the dawn, “look-”</p><p>The hollow of the wretched tree had closed. Its wood remained stained with dried blood, but what startled me was the sight of roses blooming from between the bark. They were popping along the roots, full blossoms of dark red, all the more striking in the snow.</p><p>My eyes followed the path they took, each rose growing in the direction of Andrés’ blood. Until I saw you staring upon your hands, mouth agape. Roses sat on your palms. You looked down, where they now bloomed from Andrés’ shattered ribs, no doubt a mockery of the beauty he’d chased in life.</p><p>Sergio wrapped his hand around the handle of the fallen knife, tears spilling anew.</p><p>You blinked, staring upwards as if seeing the sky and snow for the very first time. Then, from his chest, you plucked a single rose. And laying Andrés gently to the ground, you touched a kiss to his frozen lips. It was the first and last time your mouth met his.</p><p>Then you glanced at me, finally making sense of what occurred. He was dead and there was no bringing him back. But you were determined to give him what he wanted-- the burial he’d once wished for.</p><p>You dug your hands into the remnants of his burning book, not caring for how they scorched your wrists. The fire, you carried in your hands, and again bending over Andrés, you dropped the flames. </p><p>We cremated him along with the ashes of the leather book. When the fire turned to smoke, there was nothing left but singed roses and charred bones. Sergio scooped up a handful of ash, and I could not tell the difference between ash and snow.</p><p>Later, you told me you could not let his remains stay in that cemetery, not after all the pain it’d caused him in birth and life. And so, you gathered his bones, held them to your weeping heart, and started limping away.</p><p>You told Sergio to do what his brother said. And it would be for the best if he parted ways with you. I left with you, not because Andrés wanted me to, but because my gut told me you needed me more. Sergio still had Toledo.</p><p>You had nothing but a ghost’s scorched bones.</p><p>As for Andrés, you told him, <em> “I love you.”  </em>A final hymn.</p><p>~~o~~ </p><p>
  <em> Once upon a time, there was a wicked boy who became a wicked man. His name was Andrés, and he was born from a witch’s womb. Andrés was a naughty boy who envied all things good. So great was his envy that the Devil looked to him and said, ‘what a lovely boy.’ </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Devil sent him a gift. A little black book that fed on blood. The book told him to find a good little child. So he did. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> With a red apple, Andrés lured a girl with red locks to his home. He killed her and stole her bones. He gave them to the Devil and the Devil was most pleased. Then the book told him to find a good little babe. So he did. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Andrés stole his baby brother from his crib. The babe’s name was Sergio and he was as good as Andrés was bad. When he cried, their father came running. Their father knew what Andrés had done, and the good people of the village chased Andrés away. They saved the babe and told the Devil’s servant to never return. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And Andrés laughed, for he found these people very dumb. When he ran, the sky rained red. They say Andrés dug up a dead cat next. It was the Devil’s gift as well.The cat told Andrés where to go next. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He went town to town to spread his wicked ways. Andrés lied and cheated and shed much blood. He made friends with ghosts and demons and the like. He loved plagues and murders and unvirtuous things. He despised goodwill and all things pious.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They say Andrés met a madman next. The alchemist of Palermo was a most terrible man, and he too loved the Devil’s song. He turned children’s bones to gold and melted their blood to lead. And the Devil told him to follow Andrés. They left together when the Devil summoned them next.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Keep your dead buried deep, they say. Or else Andrés will find them and make them his. Servants from corpses that suffered by the hour and day.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But such evil came at a price. When Andrés again lured a youth to death, he tried to escape to his Master’s side. And when he ran, the alchemist showed his cowardly ways. He parted from Andrés and disappeared. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Now a most virtuous man, Sergio found where Andrés hid. He burnt the Devil’s black book and drove a dagger through the wicked man’s heart. Andrés met a most gruesome end, as did his companions and their terrible ways.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Devil lost and returned beneath. Roses sprung from the earth in joy. Then the people made merry and rejoiced. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> -- The Necromancer’s Ode </em>
</p><p>
  <b>~~o~~</b>
</p><p>Are you still listening? Not Martín, <em> you- </em> my friend, who allowed me to say so much. You must know of the Necromancer’s Ode. It’s quite popular, I know, a tale parents tell children at night. <em> Be good, </em> they’d say, <em> or the necromancer will take you away! </em></p><p>Ah, the necromancer would have laughed if he knew. Do you believe that fable over my words? I won’t force you to choose. Memory is, after all, a fickle thing. The necromancer is no more than a story now, words ghosting from mouth to mouth. I know of a rhyme where he carved out his lover’s heart, a song where he killed his father with a poisoned rose, a ballad where he served a witch.</p><p>Andrés can’t dispute these tales. He’s been gone for so long. And what right have I to refute them in his place? </p><p>What happened in the end? I wish I could say Sergio cleared his brother’s name. And he did try, my friend. But he was only one man after all, powerless despite his brain. </p><p>So Sergio did as he was told. He marched to the entrance of San Martín, and on his knees, he roared, “He’s dead! He’s dead! I slaughtered him with my hand!”  </p><p>He held the bloodied dagger in his hands, up towards the sculpted saints. And before them, he sobbed until he choked on breath. Sergio stayed kneeling for hours, perhaps days, unwilling to budge or relinquish that knife. For three, four days, I’m told, Sergio remained on the marble steps, shedding as many tears as his brother had blood. </p><p>And as Andrés said, Marquina’s name was cleared. He returned to Toledo then. Martín followed, but he did not stay.</p><p>There, Martín made his elixir. He dipped Andrés’ bones in gold and melted that mix into a fine silver. He told me the bones had been burnt with hellfire, scarred the same way as his hands. When they reacted with gold, he purged them of shadow and replaced it with light.</p><p>Perhaps with this potion, he could have brought Matteo back. There was nothing left of Andrés but there was still a corpse in Matteo’s place. But Martín never returned to Palermo.</p><p>Instead, he gave his work to Murillo. Martín had learned by then that the dead could never come back. Yet there had always been a thread for the living, however thin, however faint. For Raquel’s sake, I hope she never had to use his elixir-- “in case,” Martín had said, if anyone at her school felt their spirit ill again, a drop would be enough to restore it to the way it’d been.</p><p>Martín settled in a quiet city, perhaps because he could no longer stand the noise of life. And always, he kept a rose from Andrés pinned above his heart. His beating heart, I think, he never quite adapted to. Often, he’d be awakened by its thumps at night, plagued with dreams of a man who never return. </p><p>He spent most of his time in his work, melting lead to gold and collecting metal for his study. He smoked when he could and drank with some abandon. When Sergio wrote, Martín would read the letters, then rip them up.</p><p>From what I gathered, Sergio did not want his brother to die in vain. If anything, the circumstances only made him more determined to pursue his schemes, schemes that Martín had no desire to look upon.</p><p>If not for me, Martín would have wasted away in his home. I urged him to eat, I tried to make him laugh, I threatened him to live. I knew Andrés would not have wanted me to tell him many things. He certainly would never have wanted Martín to know what really happened at Santa Catalina.</p><p>But I was also a selfish thing. If Sergio and I had to live with the burden of knowing, then Martín had to as well. </p><p>One night, I told him everything. I told him that if he died, Andrés’ death would have been for nothing. And however reluctant, Martín took my words to heart. In the morning, he wrote back to Sergio. And to this day, they write. </p><p>But Martín still refused to visit Toledo. He told me he had no desire to see the professor and his wife, a family that filled him with burning envy. Martín took many lovers over the years, but there was always a distance between he and them, a gap that they could not replace. From time to time, he prattled on about the lover and beloved, a philosophy where the lover adored and the beloved accepted. And always, I felt that Martín was the beloved of those poor wretches.</p><p>Martín never faulted anyone else, you see. In his life, there had only ever been one beloved, a man whose lips he only graced once. And to that man, Martín had been the beloved as well. No, Martín could not forget Andrés, not in this lifetime at the very least. And it was just as well, for Martín now lived for two men, himself and the phantom of the man he loved. </p><p>As for me, I finally felt Naranjita’s age. She’d already lived longer than any cat should. Andrés had bound my soul to his, not hers. Even should he die, Naranjita would live. But she would live as any cat would.</p><p>I felt the weight of her bones then, the years in her limbs, the slow push of her lungs. Soon, I knew, we would sleep and never awake.</p><p>So I said to Martín, “Take me home.”</p><p>Martín hated our village more than Andrés ever had. But he did not argue with me then. </p><p>We returned to the cemetery first. Under the tree where Andrés’ roses bloomed, where his mother had died, Martín gathered a handful of flowers. In the shape of a bouquet, he placed them atop the grave of Andrés’ grandfather. The remaining rose, he slipped under the collar of his shirt. He pressed it to his chest, crushing the petals to his skin.</p><p>And now we sit in the grand chapel of San Martín. He rests beside me, his hands on his lap, stained with gentle scars. Martín kisses those scars often, cherishes them as he would any reminder of Andrés. His namesake looms over us, painted upon the great stained glass. The murals of my childhood glisten in the morning light, warm as fire and as cool as snow. </p><p>I once said this was a world where hellfire touched heaven’s light. I feel the same way I did then.</p><p>Have I told you the tale of Saint Martín? When he arrived at our village, there was a sinner chained to the stocks outside. Saint Martín took pity on him and ordered the man freed. This man was so grateful that he renounced his sins. From then on, he devoted himself to Saint Martín and together, they built this church, stone by stone. I doubt much of it is true. The church was clearly built by a mason who knew his craft. But I don’t doubt that there was some semblance of truth. But perhaps it had been the other way around. Perhaps Saint Martín had been the man in the stocks. Or perhaps he had loved his sinner so much that he built this church upon his death. </p><p>This part, I believe, if only because of the man sitting next to me. Martín is not a religious man. But as the light washes down, cascades of sun from the world outside, he looks up. His hands clasp over the rose, and perhaps- for the first time in his life- he prays.</p><p>And I hear the organ sing. My uncle is long dead. But a man sits in his place now, fingers gracing over organ keys. I hear his song echo into the air. My friend, listen. </p><p>Follow the sound of the organ’s pipes. It floats over our heads, past the grey at Martín’s temple and the blue of his pained eyes. Let it take you away from these pews, up the altar, through the sculptures of marble saints.</p><p>Follow the spiral of martyrs up, past gold lining, mosaic glass, to the ceiling where a string of light hangs down.</p><p>It may be Naranjita’s failing vision, perhaps a trick of light, but the image blurs for me here. I see him, Andrés. The very last remnant of a soul long gone, a ghost frozen in time.</p><p>A boy suspended in the air. Ropes around his waist. A brush in his hand. He paints the faces of sculptures in prayer. He paints there, basked in sunlight, not a care in the world in his sliding grin. The crooked smile of a child untouched, unharmed. If I blink, he might disappear, so I keep my eyes trained up.</p><p>Can you see him too, my friend? Can you, Martín? Perhaps. Perhaps.</p><p>I’ll sleep for now as Naranjita purs. And when I wake, I hope to see Andrés painting still. Perhaps I’ll even hear the funeral mass. <em> Dies Irae, </em> my hated song. But there is one part I keep close. Now I sing it with my last breath:</p><p>
  <em> “Qui Mariam absolvisti, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Et latronem exaudisti, </em>
</p><p><em>Mihi quoque spem dedisti</em>//</p><p>Through the sinful woman shriven,</p><p>Through the dying thief forgiven,</p><p>Thou to me a hope hast given.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And that brings "Dies Irae" to a close! As for who "You" are at the very end, it's up to you- it can be yourself literally, Tokyo, Nairobi, or even Helsinki. I imagine that after all this, Sergio goes on to meet the rest of the canon characters. </p><p>EDIT: Now comes with a happy ending AU here: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080017">Absolvisti</a></p><p>Thank you so much for giving this story a chance, and I hope it was all worth your time. Comments/kudos are more than welcome! Because this was such a strange story (for me) from start to finish, I'd love to know what you thought.</p><p>I never expected this to actually have readers and commenters, so I want to sincerely thank you all again. If it wasn't for the interest, I'd never have finished this fic.</p><p>Some final thoughts from me: This story somehow managed to stay a T (unless the violence was too much?), but I did consider a smut scene. I decided not to in the end- it felt more fitting with the story's tone to not have that. (Doesn't mean I'm ruling out writing an AU of this AU where Martín gets his happy ending though...)</p><p>Andrés turned out less evil than I intended. I wanted him to be a nastier person, but the story didn't ask for more moments like that (and I knew it'd feel unnecessary if I shoehorned some random murders in). So we end up with this AU Andrés, and I hope you enjoyed your time with him regardless :')  </p><p>The only thing that never changed in this fic was Tatiana as a cat. The banda was originally here and I even thought of this as modern day at one point instead of the 18th/19th century adjacent fantasy setting we got. Martín was wandering with Nairobi and Helsinki at first, and Oslo was part of Andrés and Tatiana's group. But I chose to scale down, and I like how lonely they all ended up. Sergio will go on to recruit everyone else, but this Andrés will always just be a story to them. </p><p>Rambling done. Thank you again for reading through! And if you're interested in more of my nonsense, here's my writing blog: <a href="http://roccinan.tumblr.com/">roccinan.tumblr.com</a></p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! If you finished this chapter, feel free to comment/kudos because I have no idea how to continue this and I decided to publish because I knew this was the WEIRDEST of my fics and would never see the light of day if I continued to be a coward.</p><p>I have no idea when the next chapter will finish, but if anyone besides me is interested, I'll force it to finish! </p><p>Also, if you're interested in seeing more of my nonsense, this is my (bad) writing blog: <a href="http://roccinan.tumblr.com/">roccinan.tumblr.com</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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